THE  LIBRARY 

OF 
THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


THE 


ORPHAN   BOY; 


OR, 


f ijjjts  aifo  Sjjatofos  of  |tor%rn  fife. 


BY   JEEEMY    LOUD, 

AUTHOR   OF   "  DOVECOTE." 


NEW  YORK : 
DERBY  &  JACKSON,  119  NASSAU  ST. 

1857. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  In  the  year  1866,  by 

DERBY    &    JACKSON, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  tha  District  Court,  for  the  Southern  District  of  New  York 


•  IEREOTTPED  PRINTED  BY 

THOMAS   B.  SMITH,  TTOHEY   <fc    BUSSEL, 

82  A  84  Beekmon  79  John  Street. 


Lilt* 


I  CONFESS  I  never  could  understand  why  a  Preface 
need  always  be  an  Apology.  If  a  man  has  written  a 
book,  and  fairly  put  his  heart  into  what  he  has  done, 
it  is  not  so  easy  to  tell  what  there  is  for  him  to  be 
ashamed  of. 

A  Preface  certainly  should  not  be  a  whine.  It 
may  be  made  a  vehicle  for  either  this,  that,  or  the 
other  sort  of  sentiment  respecting  the  book,  bespeak 
ing  for  it  nothing  more  than  fair  play  in  its  proper 
turn  ;  or  it  may  be  the  avant  courrier — the  clear- 
the-way  guard  (in  the  case  of  a  Novel)  to  the  main 
body  of  personages  just  ready  to  come  up  : — but 
whatever  it  is,  there  is  no  use  in  crying  about  it. 
For  my  own  part,  while  I  have  no  such  design  as  that 
of  hawking  my  own  literary  wares  through  the  world, 
neither  will  I  consent  to  beg  a  well-disposed  Public 
to  wink  at  what  they  honestly  want  to  condemn. 

Therefore  the  less  said  about  the  contents  of  these 
two  covers,  the  better.  My  readers  will  be  likely  to 
say  all  that  is  necessary  in  the  matter,  and  say  it  a 


IV  PREFATORY. 

great  deal  better  than  I  can.  The  story  in  the  main 
is  a  simple  one,  rehearsing  the  interwoven  histories  of 
a  round  of  every-day  characters  in  town  and  country. 
I  have  thought  but  to  describe  the  passions  and 
pleasures,  the  trials  and  triumphs  of  common  .life, 
trenching  in  no  part  upon  ground  that  properly 
belongs  to  the  domains  of  romance,  and  seeking  to 
balance  all  drafts  on  the  imagination  against  the 
actual  experiences  of  existence. 

If  there  should  be  a  passage  or  a  page,  here  and 
there,  by  whose  silent  means  the  heart  of  the  reader 
may  be  drawn  to  the  heart  of  the  author,  the  book 
will  have  served  the  first  and  highest  purpose  for 
which  it  was  written.  If  there  is  any  thing  in  life  in 
which  the  author  implicitly  believes,  it  is  the  mag 
netism  of  Love.  The  intellect  is  regal,  because  for 
ever  tossed  by  the  waves  of  a  restless  ambition  ;  but 
the  soul  of  man  is  far  greater,  because  it  expands  only 
as  it  aspires.  The  secret  sympathy  of  a  single  human 
heart,  therefore,  is  better  than  the  echoed  applause 
of  a  thousand  minds,  even  if  they  all  sat  at  the  very 
top  of  literary  judgment. 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  I. 

PAGE 

A  PAUPER'S  FUNKRAL 11 

CHAPTER  n. 

A   ClIASE  AKOUND  THE   CHIMNEY 19 

I 

CHAPTER  IH. 
BOUND  OUT 29 

CHAPTER  IV. 
KIT  NUBBLES 43 

CHAPTER  V. 

TEN-ACRE  ELYSIUM 53 

• 

CHAPTER  VI. 
OUT  OF  THE  BUSHES ,    fti 


Vi  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  VII. 

MR.   HOLLIDAY  ..................  1 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
A  MORNING  CALL  .......................................     83 

CHAPTER  IX. 
KIT  AND  HIS  CROW  .......................................    92 

CHAPTER  X. 
THE  WORTH  OF  A  RELATION  ...............................  102 

• 

CHAPTER  XL 
THE  TRAVELING  MENAGERIE  ...............................  110 

CHAPTER  XII. 
THE  BEAUTIFUL  MUTE  ....................................  120 

CHAPTER  XHI. 

A  WALK  ACROSS  THE  COUNTRY  ____  .  130 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

AFTER  THE  FEAST.  .  ,  .  139 


CONTENTS.  Vll 


CHAPTER  XV. 

PAGE 

GABRIEL  AND  BIS  FRIENDS 146 


CHAPTER  XVI. 
SCHOOLFELLOWS...  .  169 


CHAPTER  XVII. 
NONESUCH 171 

CHAPTER  XVHI. 
THE  OLD  APPLE  DEALER 181 

CHAPTER  XIX. 
TO-MORROW 192 

CHAPTER  XX. 

POVERTT    JO 203 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

A  BACK-DOOR  VISITOR 212 

• 

. 

CHAPTER  XXII. 
LITTLE  PILGRIMS  . .  221 


viii  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 

FAOB 

CHOWDER  AND  CHARITY 231 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 
HIGHLY  ENTERTAINING , 240 

CHAPTER  XXV. 
COUSINS 249 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 
AT.T.  IN  CONFIDENCE 259 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 
Ax  AUTHOR  AT  HOME 268 

> 

CHAPTER  XXVIII.  •, 

A  SOBER  RECKONING 284 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 
THE  DOUBLE  SECRET 294 

« 
• 

CHAPTER  XXX. 

THE  BOOK  PEDDLER ,  , .  302 


CONTENTS.  lx 

CHAPTER  XXXI. 

PAGE 

A  LOVER  s  KNOT 317 

CHAPTER  XXXH. 
FATHER  AND  DAUGHTER 326 

CHAPTER  XXXIII. 
A  MUTE  MONITOR ." 335 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

ACCUSER  AND  ACCUSED .  344 


CHAPTER  ,XXXV. 

A  SECRET  OUT.  .,  .358 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 
LIFE  IN  THE  BALANCE 361 

CHAPTER  XXXVII. 
THE  WORK  OP  A  MAGDALEN  . , 378 

CHAPTER  XXXVIH. 

THE  HANGMAN'S  EOPE '. .  385 

1* 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

•    PAGE 

A  HAPPY  MARRIAGE..  .  396 


CHAPTER  XL. 
GOOD  FANNY  WARE 404 

CHAPTER  XLI. 

OLD  NATHAN  GRUBB  AND  HIS  ERRAND...  ,.411 


GABRIEL    VANE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

A  PAUPER'S  FUNERAL. 

SNOW — snow — snow,  and  the  dreary  night  falling. 

For  hours  the  flakes  had  kept  coming — finer,  faster, 
thicker.  Now  they  fell  so  swiftly  your  eyes  were  dazzled 
trying  to  follow  them  down.  The  landscape  was  wrapping 
around  itself  a  great  white  shroud  with  many  folds.  It  was 
just  such  weather  as  you  might  expect — though  it  is  not 
always  to  be  had — in  mid  December.  The  scene  was  a 
country  scene  ;  a  dead,  drear  landscape  ;  hills  and  woods 
fading  away  in  the  misty  maze  of  the  snow  ;  houses  look 
ing  in  the  distance  Hke  mere  humps  on  the  back  of  the 
world,  each  moment  getting  dimmer  and  dimmer ;  roads 
closing  up  to  the  eye  as  if  by  the  storm  they  were  made 
as  impassable  as  by  gates;  and  overhead  the  heavens 
darkening  till  the  gloom  promised  to  be  complete  and 
profound. 

It  was  dismal  enough  in  town,  where  the  few  travelers 
staggered  against  one  another  in  the  streets;  but  in  the 
open  country,  without  the  protection  of  high  houses  on 
either  side,  or  the  half-cheery  companionship  of  lanterns 
that  tried  to  wink  through  the  blinding  storm,  it  was  dis- 


12  A    PAUPEK'S    FUNERAL. 

mal  indeed.  There  was  nothing  to  cheat  your  senses  of 
the  dull  reality  in  the  country.  Your  imagination  could 
create  no  Avails  to  narrow  down  the  width  of  the  picture, 
nor  light  rows  of  lamps  to  break  ever  so  feebly  the  mo 
notony  of  the  gloom. 

There  stood  an  old  poor-house  on  a  bleak  country  cross 
road  that  appeared  to  take  a  real  pride — if  poor-houses  may 
be  supposed  to  be  proud — in  its  environments  of  desolation. 
Unlike  some  who  manage  to  wear  the  livery  of  a  good  char 
acter  got  under  false  pretenses,  this  edifice  rather  seemed 
to  wear  its  garments  and  name  with  an  air  of  undeniable 
satisfaction.  Being  a  poor-house — only  a  wretched  coun 
try  poor-house — it  would  wish  to  appear  nothing  more 
nor  less  than  itself.  So  the  yard  that  stretched  from  the 
front-door  to  the  end  of  the  lane  was  strewn  about  with 
logs,  chips,  fragments  of  vehicles  of  various  sorts,  broken 
cart-wheels,  and  a  grind-stone  without  a  crank.  And  a 
tumble-down  shed  hard  by  vainly  pretended  to  keep  the 
storm  out  of  the  seat  of  the  best  and  only  wagon  its  pro 
prietor  had  to  ride  over  to  the  village  in.  And  the  stone 
walls  gaped  widely  opposite  the  house,  as  if  they  might 
possibly  be  sleepy,  and  that  there  might  be  no  trouble 
about  the  cows  getting  into  the  fields  in  summer. 

The  dwelling  itself  was  very  brown  and  very  dingy; 
oblivious  of  any  coat  the  painter  might  have  thrown  over 
its  shoulders  in  earlier  days.  The  windows  were  remark 
ably  diminutive,  and  without  either  curtains  or  shutters. 
A  single  stone  chimney  rose  like  a  turret  from  the  middle 
of  the  sharp  ridge-pole,  stained  and  dirty  with  the  smokes 
of  full  forty  years.  The  door  was  low,  and  just  over  it 
was  set  a  row  of  thick  glass  windows  to  serve  as  lights 
for  the  entry.  No  description  could  exactly  carry  the 
building,  with  all  its  many  uninviting  accompaniments, 
and  set  it  "down  before  the  reader's  imagination.  To  be 


A  PAUPER'S  FUNERAL.  13 

perfectly  and  properly  estimated,  inwardly  as  well  as  out 
wardly,  it  must  needs  have  been  made  the  subject  of 
individual  reconnoissance. 

At  one  of  the  diminutive  front  windows  was  standing 
the  slight  figure  of  a  little  boy,  who  was  occupied  with 
looking  out  thoughtfully  on  the  dreary  scenery  and  the 
falling  snow.  He  was  an  object  that  challenged»at  the 
same  time  one's  attention  and  compassion.  His  face  was 
extremely  pale,  and  his  eyes  were  red  and  swollen  with 
much  weeping.  A  capacious  and  open  forehead,  over 
whose  temples  were  ^carelessly  strewn  the  auburn  locks 
he  now  had  no  one' to  keep  arranged  for  him,  spoke  of  a 
quick  and  abundant  intellect ;  while  the  whole  expression 
that  sat  on  his  youthful  countenance  was  that  of  the  most 
abject  sadness. 

Standing  thus  apart  at  the  window,  in  the  common 
room  where  several  others  were  gathered — silent,  sad 
dened,  and  thoughtful — his  very  tenderness  of  years  ex 
citing  a  quick  and  subtle  sympathy  with  the  beholder,  he 
offered  such  a  picture  as  every  dreary  country  poor-house 
is  not  able  to  produce.  The  others  in  the  room — men 
and  women — kept  throwing  glances  at  him  as  if  he  must 
be  uppermost  in  their  thoughts ;  and  more  than  one  of 
the  old  creatures  drew  real  and  honest  sighs  in  looking 
forward  to  the  future  that  stretched  away  at  his  feet. 

"  Poor  boy  !"  said  one  of  the  men  sitting  near  the  stove, 
in  a  tone  he  might  have  meant  for  a  whisper ;  "  he  takes 
it  hardly  enough,  don't  he  ?" 

"  Ah !  but  there  be  few  at  his  age,"  was  the  reply, 
"  that  know,  as  he  does,  what  'tis  to  lose  a  mother  !  It 's 
a  great  loss ;  a  very  great  loss,  you  see." 

"  And  he  always  loved  her  so  much !  Leastways,  he 
always  seemed  to." 

"  Yes,  and  she  him  jest  as  much,  too." 


14  A  PAUPER'S  FUNEKAL. 

The  men  both  turned  their  faces  and  surveyed  him 
again  soberly. 

"  The  poor  little  feller !  I  wish  I  was  able  to  do  some- 
thin'  for  him  ;  I  really  do.  If  some  real  good  rich  man 
would  come  along,  now  !" 

"Ah,  but  don't  be  too  sure.  Your  rich  men  ain't  al- 
ways«your  best  men.  They  don't  make  a  p'int  o'  lovin' 
the  downright  poor  any  too  much.  Oh,  no  ;  they  seem 
to  think  their  money  has  put  'em  forever  out  o'  the  reach 
of  poverty,  and  all  they  mean  to  do  is  jest  to  look  out  and 
keep  it  at  a  safe  distance.  So  poor  folks  have  to  crowd 
back ;  and  they  do  crowd,  and  dreadful  close  too,  some 
times,  I  can  tell  ye !  It 's  really  astonishin'  how  little  feel 
ing  there  is  in  the  world,  arter  all 's  said  and  done." 

The  boy  still  kept  his  position  at  the  window.  The 
room  was  not  yet  lighted,  and  only  the  few  unsteady 
gleams  of  the  flame  that  played  through  the  chinks  of 
the  stove  door  were  allowed  to  throw  their  glimmering 
radiance  over  the  apartment.  Now  and  then  they  suf 
ficed  to  light  up  quite  grotesquely,  and  but  for  a  passing 
moment,  the  different  figures  that  were  drawn  in  a  hud 
dled  circle  around  the  stove  ;  but  that  was  all. 

The  snow  was  falling  fast.  It  was  covering  every 
thing.  It  was  weaving  the  winding-sheet  for  the  new 
grave  of  the  boy's  dead  mother ! 

His  thoughts  were  busy  with  the  subject.  His  eyes 
mechanically  tried  to  follow  some  of  the  flakes,  and 
watched  them  as  they  were  silently  matted  into  the 
pearly  mass  that  enveloped  the  ground  ;  and  his  feelings 
brooded  sadly  in  the  grave  he  had  that  afternoon  seen 
closed. 

It  was  an  unhappy  scene  even  for  so  unhappy  a  spot  as 
the  poor-house  of  Epping.  It  was  a  funeral.  Every 
where  funerals  are  impressive,  but  especially  so  in  the 


A  PAUPER'S  FUNERAL.  15 

deep  quiet  of  the  country,  and  in  the  almost  unbroken 
solitudes  of  winter.  The  shivering  regiment  of  the  town's 
poor  in  Epping  had  on  that  same  afternoon  voluntarily 
marshaled  itself  into  a  double  line,  and,  with  a  depth  of 
sympathy  that  even  raggedness  and  cold  can  not  freeze 
in  every  human  heart,  paid  unitedly  its  last  sorrowful  re 
spects  to  the  memory  of  the  dead.  It  was  a  melancholy 
sight — this  thin  procession  of  paupers,  and  challenged 
the  compassion  of  all  who  beheld  it. 

At  the  head  of  the  line  walked  the  village  minister, 
holding  the  little  orphan's  hand.  One  of  the  Selectmen 
of  the  town  was  likewise  present,  who  had  arrived  for  the 
purpose  of  keeping  matters  as  orderly  as  possible.  And 
Mr.  Hardcastle,  the  keeper  of  the  poor,  himself  was  no 
wise  behindhand  in  lending  his  supervisory  assistance  on 
the  mournful  occasion  ;  albeit  Mrs.  Hardcastle  felt  herself 
assured  that  she  had  more* important  work  to  do,  than  fol 
lowing  a  friendless  and  unknown  pauper  to  her  grave. 

"  For,"  said  she  with  herself,  "  who  is  there  that  knows 
any  thing  about  this  woman  ?  The  Selectmen  sent  her 
here  to  be  taken  care  of;  she  has  been  taken  care  of. 
And  now  that  she 's  finally  dead  and  gone,  she  '11  be  put 
out  of  the  way  altogether,  where  she'll  be  no  further 
trouble  to  nobody.  Is  there  any  body,  now,  that  knows 
who  she  was  ?  or  where  she  came  from  ?  or  any  thing  at 
all  about  her?  And  to  cap  the  whole,  she  must  needs 
put  on  such  very  pretty  airs,  and  try  to  make  it  appear 
as  if  she  had  been  once  such  a  very  great  lady,  and  so 
very  feminine,  and  quite  above  work,  and  eternally  com 
plaining  of  her  health — and  all  such  things  as  that !  Why, 
if  she  had  friends,  why 'did  n't  she  call  on  'em,  and  not 
lay  and  die  in  a  poor-house?  At  all  events,  why  didn't 
she  once  tell  where  they  be  ?  We.  might  have  been  put 
in  the  way  then  of  helping  her  some.  As  it  was,  she 


16  A  PAUPER'S  FUNERAL. 

kept  every  thing  to  herself,  as  close  as  could  be  ;  and  I  'm 
sure  I  don't  know  how  she'd  expect  others  to  go  to  work 
for  themselves  and  find  out  her  secret !  I  don't  believe 
there  ever  Avas  any  secret ;  I  believe  she  never  was  any 
thing  more  than  just  what  she  Avas  when"  she  died  !" 

Thus  soliloquized  Mrs.  Hardcastie ;  and  Mrs.  Plard- 
castle,  as  a  general  thing,  did  the  thinking  for  both  herself 
and  her  nominal  lord.  In  the  matter  of  action,  he  Avas 
conceded  to  stand  rather  foremost.  Yet,  in  fact,  he  never 
dared  to  push  forward  save  on  the  smooth  track  of  the 
plans  she  had  previously  prepared  for  him. 

While  the  boy,  Avhose  name  was  Gabriel,  was  yet  stand 
ing  before  the  dai'kened  AvindoAv,  as  I  have  already  de 
scribed,  one  of  the  two  men  who  had  employed  the  fore 
going  expressions  of  pity  toAvard  him,  stepped  slowly  over 
to  where  he  was,  and  took  hold  gently  of  his  shoulder. 

"  Gabriel !"  said  he,  in  a  low  and  husky  tone. 

The  boy  looked  up ;  but  he  did  so  with  such  modera 
tion  and  self-possession,  that  the  man  partially  started 
before  the  mild  expression  of  his  eye,  and  for  a  moment 
hesitated.  As  soon  as  Gabriel  saw  who  the  speaker  was, 
he  instantly  threw  his  eyes  out  the  AvindoAv  again. 

"  Why  don't  you  set  by  the  stove,  Gabriel  ?"  asked 
the  man,  still  in  a  low  tone.  "  You  must  be  cold  here." 

"  I'd  rather  stand  here  and  look  out  the  windoAV,"  was 
the  answer. 

"  You  must  be  lonesome,"  said  the  man.  "  Come  and 
set  doAvn  by  me  awhile.  Come,"  and  he  pulled  gently  at 
the  boy's  arm. 

"  I  like  to  stay  here  by  myself,  and  watch  the  snow, 
I  can't  sit  by  the  stove.  I  want  to  think  about  my 
mother." 

The  reply  dimmed,  the  eyes  of  old  Nathan  Grubb  with 
tears. 


A  PAUPER'S  FUNERAL.  17 

"  I  will  be  your  friend,  Gabriel,"  said  he.  "  I  will  take 
the  place  of  your  mother  for  you.  Come,  come  with  me, 
and  set  up  to  the  fire.  You  must  n't  think  of  these  things 
too  much ;  they  ain't  good  for  you;  they'll  hurt  your  mind." 

"  Will  it  do  me  any  hurt  to  think  of  my  dear  mother, 
Mr.  Grubb  ?"  inquired  the  boy,  with  great  iimocence. 

"  No  ;  but  you  must  n't  let  your  thoughts  run  to  mel 
ancholy  too  much.  That 's  all.  You  're  young  yet,  you 
know.  You  '11  get  over  it  all  sometime,  perhaps.  Come ; 
don't  stay  off  here  alone  so  !" 

"  Shall  I  ever  forget  my  mother,  Mr.  Grubb,  do  you 
think  ?"  returned  Gabriel,  turning  over  the  words  of  his 
consoler.  "  Have  you  forgotten  all  about  your  mother, 
Mr.  Grubb  ?" 

"  No,  no,  bless  your  innocent  soul !  No,  no ;  my  dear 
little  lad !  Not  at  all,  I  thank  God  most  devoutly !  Not  at 
all  have  I !  She 's  in  my  heart  here,  every  day  I  live  ;  and 
she 's  in  my  dreams  at  night,  too,  pretty  often.  But  I 
never  allowed  myself  to  think  of  nothing  else  ;  if  I  had,  I 
should  n't  know  how  to  do  what  it's  so  necessary  I  must 
do.  Ah,  no,  poor  boy !  Never  forget  your  own  mother, 
as  long  as  you  live.  A  man  never  has  but  one  mother  in 
this  world.  Always  be  true  to  her  memory,  and  you 
can't  well  help  bein'  happy  all  the  way  through  the  world,, 
let  you  be  as  poor  as  you  may.  Just  remember  that, 
will  you  ?  and  remember  old  Nathan  Grubb  too,  of  the 
Epping  Poor-house,  every  time  you  think  of  it.  Come 
now,  won't  ye,  and  set  up  by  the  fire  with  me.  You  're 
lonesome  here,  I  know.  I  want  to  cheer  ye  up  a  little. 
Come ;  it 's  too  cold  out  here." 

Still  the  boy  kept  his  attention  riveted  on  the  dreary 
scene  without  doors.  He  made  no  answer,  wrapped,  to 
appearance,  in  the  sombre  drapery  of  bis  feelings. 

Old  Nathan  stooped  down  to  whisper  in  his  ear,  and  so 
brought  his  own  face  in  close  contact  with  the  little  sufferer's. 


18  A  PAUPER'S  FUNBKAL. 


Down  the  boy's  cheeks  the  great  tears  were  rolling, 
while  his  little  chest  heaved  convulsively  with  the  sobs  it 
had  not  the  power  to  stifle. 

Old  Nathan  started.  His  heart  was  touched  deeply. 
And  as  he  turned  sorrowfully  away,  he  said,  half  aloud 
as  he  went, 

"  Poor  little  feller !     Come,  come  and  set  with  me  I" 

A  shriveled  and  sputtering  candle  was  not  long  after 
brought  in,  that  made  the  dreary  room  look  drearier  than 
ever.  Gabriel  could  not  once  be  seduced  from  the  posi 
tion  he  had  chosen ;  and  not  until  Mr.  Hardcastle  himself 
finally  came  and  told  him  it  was  time  for  him  to  go  to 
bed,  did  he  offer  to  move  from  the  spot. 

In  the  dark — as  they  always  did — he  found  his  way  to 
his  little  bed  up  stairs,  and  hastily  crawled  in.  As  he 
threw  his  head  upon  the  pillow,  tears  rained  from  his 
eyes,  and  wet  his  cheeks. 

"  Oh,  my  mother !"  exclaimed  he,  in  a  moaning  voice  ; 
"  if  I  could  see  you  once  more !  Oh  mother!  mother!" 

Had  he  dared,  he  would  certainly  have  called  on  her 
aloud.  His  heart  was  so  cruelly  torn  with  the  thorns, 
that  he  felt  that  to  cry  out  would  be  a  sure  relief.  This 
way  and  that  he  turned,  ciying,  sobbing,  whispering  over 
and  over  again  •  words  of  anguish  and  distress ;  and  he 
stared  about  him  fitfully  in  the  gloom  of  his  cribbed  little 
room,  as  if  it  were  possible  that  the  figure  of  his  dead  pa 
rent  might  appear  in  the  darkness,  and  once  more  salute 
him  with  her  old  kiss  of  affection. 

And  between  sobbing  and  watching,  weeping  and 
wishing,  more  in  a  dream  than  in  a  waking  state,  hardly 
knowing  who  or  where  he  was,  the  orphan  fell  finally 
asleep.  In  dreams,  at  least,  there  might  be  happiness  for 
him.  In  dreams  he  might  be  permitted  to  behold  his 
mother  again. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A  CHASE  ABOUND  THE  CHIMNEY. 

GABRIEL  awoke  as  soon  as  morning  dawned,  and  tried 
to  recall  his  exact  situation  and  properly  connect  the 
strange  circumstances  that  surrounded  him.  The  first 
thought  that  came  filled  his  whole  mind.  "I  have  lost 
my  mother!"  His  heart  sunk,  and  he  felt  as  if  in  that 
one  instant  he  were  being  drawn  down  to  the  lowest 
deep  of  despair. 

His  eyes  wandered  over  the  unfinished  and  unfurnished 
room,  from  the  floor  to  the  rude  rafters,  among  the  dark 
beams  and  cross-beams,  and  in  the  gloomy  shadows  of 
the  angles.  Every  thing  looked  so  dismal !  Every  object 
spoke  so  loudly  of  desolation !  What  was  there  to  life 
that  he  should  desire  to  see  any  more  of  it  ?  How  soon 
had  the  light  gone  out  for  him,  smothered  with  the  folds 
of  a  great  and  lasting  trouble ! 

Through  the  day,  cold  and  unwelcome  as  it  was,  he 
did  nothing  but  sit  silently  by  himself,  or  loiter  alone 
with  an  exceedingly  sad  countenance  from  one  room  to 
another.  The  snow  had  piled  itself  high  every  where  out 
of  doors,  and  only  a  single  path  had  been  made  to  the 
wood-pile,  the  well,  and  so  on  to  the  barn.  He  sat  by 
the  window^he  greater  part  of  the  forenoon  looking  out 
upon  the  spectacle.  The  sun  had  not  risen  clear,  and  the 
sky  still  continued  sullen  and  gloomy.  The  air  seemed 


20  A    CHASE    ABOUND    THE    CHIMNEY. 

not  yet  to  have  quite  sifted  down  the  whole  of  its  feathery 
freight.  And  all  things  out  of  doors  conspired  to  in 
crease  the  boy's  despondency. 

He  Avould,  at  times,  so  far  escape  from  the  conscious 
ness  of  his  real  situation  as  to  lose  himself  for  a  moment 
in  his  admiration  of  the  fantastic  freaks  performed  by  the 
snow  over  night ;  studying  its  queer  devices  upon  posts 
and  rails,  roofs  and  walls;  taken  up  with  the  various 
images  and  pictures  that  crowded  themselves  so  rapidly 
into  his  mind ;  and  essaying  to  make  out  Faces  and  figures 
on  the  trees,  on  the  barn  roof,  about  the  old  shed,  and 
the  well-curb : — and  instantaneously  the  dread  shadow  of 
that  terrible  recollection — "  I  have  lost  my  mother !" — • 
would  swing  over  his  heart,  and  his  brain  reeled  and 
swam  with  the  power  of  the  sudden  shock  it  gave  him. 

The  men  and  women  belonging  about  the  house  could 
do  but  a  trifle  on  such  a  day  in  the  way  of  out-door 
work :  so  they  drew  themselves  in  a  sober  circle  around 
the  stove  that  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  and  oc 
cupied  themselves  with  sage  comments  on  the  character 
and  extent  of  the  storm,  the  length  of  time  before  the 
roads  would  get  "  broke  out,"  and  the  prospects  of  sun 
shine  for  some  time  in  the  future.  The  most  of  them 
leaned  their  elbows  forward  upon  their  knees,  getting  in 
as  near  proximity  to  the  stove  as  they  could ;  and  when 
ever  one  and  another  of  them  moved  much,  the  old  ash- 
bottomed  chairs  creaked  with  a  sound  that  seemed  to 
have  been  created  for  a  country  poor-house,  and  for  just 
nothing  else. 

A  few  indulged  in  their  old  habit  of  smoking,  draw 
ing  at  their  dingy  pipes  as  if  they  could  yield  them 
sustenance  itself,  and  crunching  the  pipe-sterns  between 
their  teeth  while  they  essayed  to  add  to  the  con\eisation. 
The  floor  was  entirely  bare,  and  about  the  stovo  was  wet 


A    CHASE    AROUND    THE    CHIMNEY.  21 

i 

the  melted  snow  that  had  been  stamped  off  from  one 
and  another's  boots.  There  had  long  been  great  need  of 
a  cleaning  at  the  windows,  and  the  need  made  itself  still 
more  manifest  as  the  dinginess  was  now  set  off  so  clearly 
against  the  spotless  ground  of  snow. 

The  men  turned  now  and  then,  some  of  them,  to  look 
at  little  Gabriel,  who  carefully  kept  his  back  toward 
them,  and  occasionally  they  had  something  sorrowful  to 
say  in  a  loud  whisper  with  each  other  ;  which  was  gen 
erally  accompanied  with  a  shake  of  the  head,  and  a 
lengthening  expression  of  countenance.  Two  or  three 
women — poor,  worn-down  creatures — helped  fill  up  the 
circle  of  paupers  around  the  stove.  They  were  attired  in 
the  most  meager  style,  and  their  faces  looked  dried  and 
shriveled.  They,  too,  bent  their  eyes  on  Gabriel,  though 
they  said  nothing  of  him  as  yet  among  themselves. 
Their  sympathy  for  him  was  quick — far  more  so  th#n 
that  of  the  others  could  have  been. 

As  the  smoke  from  their  pipes  began  by  degrees  to  fill 
the  room,  the  orphan  was  seized  with  a  fit  of  coughing ; 
and  at  last,  stealing  out  unseen  through  the  door,  he 
found  his  way  upstairs  to  his  sleeping  apartment. 

The  sight  of  the  little  bed  instantly  stirred  afresh  the 
grief  that  had  all  the  time  been  waiting  to  break  its 
bounds  and  overflow.  When  he  looked  at  it,  deserted 
and  empty,  and  when  he  thought,  too,  how  tenderly  his 
own  mother  had  always  watched  for  him  at  his  bedside, 
coming  to  look  at  him  often  before  he  arose  in  the  morn 
ing — he  could  not  control  himself  any  longer,  but  fell  in 
voluntarily  on  his  knees  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

Something  like  a  prayer — it  was  a  true  and  hearty 
child's  prayer — escaped  his  lips,  in  a  voice  that  was  but  a 
deep  moan.  "Oh,  my  mother!  my  mother!"  could  be 
heard  in  the  midst  of  convulsive  sobbings  and  sighings 


S2      A  CHASE  ABOUND  THE  CHIMNEY. 

all  over  the  room.  Every  thing  his  mother  had  told  him, 
every  word  she  had  spoken,  all  her  blessed  expressions 
of  affection,  all  her  looks  of  love  came  freshly  to  him 
now.  He  saw  her  dear  face  again.  He  caught  the 
glimpse  of  that  same  sweet — sweet  smile.  Before  his 
very  eyes  danced  her  image,  holding  out  to  him  its  open 
arms.  He  yearned  to  throw  himself  into  these  arms. 
He  longed  to  lay  his  head  once  more  upon  that  bosom, 
and  there  forget  his  destroying  griefs.  And  then  as  the 
image  suddenly  disappeared  from  his  vision,  and  the 
sweet  smile  faded  slowly  from  her  face,  and  her  opened 
arms  were  lost  in  the  vapory  mists  that  seemed  to  re 
ceive  and  enshroud  her — the  dark  shadow  sailed  over  his 
soul  darker  than  ever,  and  the  very  air  of  the  apartment 
grew  oppressive  to  his  lungs. 

"  Oh,  my  mother  !  my  dear  mother !" 

Could  cry  of  any  other  syllables  so  move  the  hearts  of 
those  who  might  be  listeners  ? 

When  the  full  power  of  his  grief  was  in  some  degree 
spent,  and  exhausted  nature  doggedly  refused  to  go 
further  with  its  poignant  suffering,  he  leaned  his  head 
against  the  edge  of  the  bed,  and,  still  sitting  on  the 
naked  floor,  seemed  slowly  lapsing  into  a  gentle  slumber. 
Cold  as  it  was  he  felt  that  he  could  have  fallen  asleep  in 
that  place  as  well  as  any  other.  And  now  the  light  from 
the  single  little  window  grew  dimmer  and  dimmer,  fading 
slowly  on  his  sight,  and  opening  to  his  drowsy  senses  a 
vista  in  which  he  £aw  the  strangest  objects  mixed  inex 
tricably  in  the  strangest  confusion.  Faces  such  as  he 
never  could  have  beheld  any  where  in  his  short  lifetime 
before,  now  came  crowding  and  flying  past  each  other 
through. -the  window,  dancing  along  toward  him  on  the 
pale  rays  of  the  light ;  and  heaps  of  outstretched  bands 
seemed  extended  to  him  from  all  directions,  as  if  they 


A    CHASE    ABOUND    THE    CHIMNEY.  23 

would  bring  him  help  in  his  trouble,  or  were  beckoning 
him  away  from  that  scene  of  sorrow  and  distress,  or 
would  clutch  at  him  to  save  him  from  the  weary  life  and 
the  saddened  death  of  the  pauper. 

These  images  mixed  themselves  up  grotesquely  with 
his  dreaminess,  peopling  thickly  the  land  of  visions  to 
which  he  was  fast  going.  Some  of  the  matter  seemed  a 
reality ;  and  some  of  it  was  so  dim  and  distant  he  could 
not  make  beginning  or  end  out  of  it  at  all.  And  among 
the  beams  and  rafters,  and  away  in  the  darkened  angles 
did  these  phantoms  go ;  some  of  the  faces  looking  as  dull 
as  they  anywise  could,  grinning  and  chattering  at  him ; 
and  some  of  the  figures  playing  fantastic  tricks,  and 
making  most  ridiculous  leaps  and  swings  all  about  the 
walls  and  ceiling. 

His  eyelids  grew  heavy.  His  eyes  almost  shut — then 
opened  themselves  wide — then  quite  shut  together ;  and 
he  was  at  last  in  the  realms  of  slumber.  And  out  of  all 
those  strange  and  droll  faces  was  looking  forth  now  only 
a  single  face — that  well-known  face  of  his  mother ;  and 
the  smiles  were  beginning  to  beam  again  on  him,  and  the 
eyes  to  sparkle  with  the  old-time  affection. 

Suddenly  a  loud,  sharp  cry  rang  in  his  ears ;  and  im 
mediately  following  it  was  to  be  heard  a  wild  medley  of 
sounds  that  might  have  been  human,  but  seemed  little 
less  than  unearthly.  His  eyes  opened,  and  he  raised  his 
head  to  look  about  the  room. 

Instantly  the  cries  were  repeated,  making  an  indescrib 
able  combination  of  noises  that  were  enough  to  chill  one's 
blood  with  horror. 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  and  walked  cautiously  toward  the 
window ;  then  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him  whence  these 
hideous  outcries  came ;  and,  obeying  the  curiosity  that 


24  A    CHASE    ABOUND    THE    CHIMNEY. 

took  instant  possession  of  him,  he  went  out  of  the  room 
and  up  into  the  garret. 

In  a  distant  corner  of  the  dismal  and  darkened  old  gar 
ret  had  been  made  a  kind  of  cage  or  pen,  much  after  the 
style  of  a  coop  for  wild  animals,  in  which  was  at  this  time 
confined  a  human  being.  As  Gabriel  reached  the  top  of 
the  stairs  he  stopped  and  listened.  Dim  as  the  light  of 
the  attic  was  it  was  yet  sufficient  to  disclose  to  his  strain 
ing  gaze  a  pair  of  fierce  and  burning  eyes  that  peered 
through  the  bars  of  that  wooden  cage ;  and  a  row  of  huge 
white  teeth,  that  gnashed  between  lips  all  parched  and 
livid  ;  and  a  human  head,  with  hair  crazily  tossed  and 
tangled  upon  its  wrinkled  temples.  He  had  heard  those 
noises  before,  and  might  perhaps  have  known  that  there 
was  some  deep  mystery  in  them.  He  must  have  hitherto 
suspected  that  the  dreary  attic  was  put  to  uses  of  which 
he  had  not  been  very  minutely  advised ;  and  he  remem 
bered  that  sundry  expressions  from  the  older  ones  in  the 
house,  dropped  in  cautious  tones,  had  often  fallen  within 
his  quick  hearing. 

Going  straight  to  the  great  chimney,  he  crouched  in  its 
shadow,  peering  from  around  the  corner  at  the  creature 
thus  kept  in  confinement.  He  felt  a  creeping  sensation 
come  over  his  flesh  as  the  sounds  continued ;  yet  he  could 
not  stir,  for  a  feeling  that  was  strangely  compounded  of 
fear  and  inquisitiveness.  He  was  riveted  to  the  spot. 

"With  howls  such  as  a  child  could  never  before  have 
heard,  and  a  quick  succession  immediately  after  of  a  series 
of  the  most  unearthly  and  terrific  guttural  sounds  imagin 
able,  the  maniac  continued  alternately  to  beat  together 
the  palms  of  his  hands,  pluck  fiercely  at  the  locks  of  his 
hair,  that  for  a  longer  time  than  usual  had  escaped  shear 
ing  at  the  hands  of  Mr.  Hardcastle,  and  pull  and  tug  with 
all  his  excited  strength  at  the  bars  of  his  most  unwelcome 


A    CHASE    AROUND    THE    CHIMNEY.  25 

prison.  His  great  gray  eyes  flashed  like  coals  of  fire. 
He  raved  and  cursed  impiously.  He  stamped  his  naked 
feet  upon  the  floor  as  if  he  would  tear  every  board 
through. 

Perhaps  he  was  cold.  What  of  that  ?  He  was  a  crazy 
man ;  and  such  needed  not  to  be  warm.  They  must  only 
be  kept  from  harming  those  whom  God  had  made  more 
jane  than  they.  Possibly  the  frost  had  taken  hold  of  his 
feet.  But  better  so,  said  his  friends  and  keepers,  if  by 
the  means  be  brought  no  untimely  frost  upon  their  own 
individual  happiness.  A  poor,  pitiful,  wretched  outcast! 
cooped  and  caged  in  the  darkest  corner  of  the  dark  gar 
ret  of  the  old  poor-house !  when  out  of  hearing,  utterly 
forgotten  by  those  of  his  kin  ;  and  when  accidentally 
within  reach  of  their  ears,  flung  off  hastily  from  their  com 
passion  with  a  light  and  random  expression,  perhaps  more 
than  half  of  contempt ! 

He  espied  Gabriel  at  length,  whose  curiosity  or  intense 
sympathy  had  led  him  to  expose  himself  round  the  corner 
of  the  chimney  ;  and  calling  out  to  him  with  a  variety  of 
sounds,  that  could  be  said  to  express  hardly  more  than 
the  idiotic  noises  in  the  throat  of  a  deaf  and  dumb  man, 
he  again  shook  the  bars  of  his  cage  as  if  nothing  could 
prevent  his  coming  through. 

The  boy  now  walked  forward  a  step  or  two.  In  this 
novel  and  startling  spectacle  he  had  for  the  moment  for 
gotten  all  his  own  sorrows,  and  was  giving  his  sympathies 
entirely  over  to  another.  He  saw  that  his  was  not  the, 
one  case  of  trouble  in  the  world  ;  aud  as.  his  young  mind 
opened  to  receive  such  a  truth,  and  in  such  a  terribly  un 
happy  way,  too,  he  had  already  learned  what  all  the  mere 
words  of  feeling  friends  might  not  have  Convinced  him  of 
in  his  lifetime. 

Such  cries  as  the  poor  creature  now  put  forth  were  not 
2 


26      A  CHASE  AKOUND  THE  CHIMNEY. 

within  the  power  of  description.  He  got  through  rav 
ing  only  to  tear  his  hair,  or  to  shake  once  more  at  the 
bars,  or  to  pull  off  the  meager  remnants  of  his  thin  gar 
ments  in  shreds  and.  tatters.  Pacing  up  and  down  for  the 
whole  length  of  his  apartment,  yet  every  moment  keeping 
his  eyes  fiercely  fixed  on  his  unexpected  visitor,  he  was 
an  object  to  awaken  dread  quite  as  much  as  compassion. 
He  seemed  a  monster,  though  he  might,  beneath  all,  have 
possessed  the  heart  of  a  woman.  The  glare  of  his  eye 
balls  was  enough  to  burn  its  impression  for  years  upon  the 
brain. 

"  Come  !  come !  come  here .!"  he  called,  beckoning 
with  all  his  might  to  Gabriel.  "  I  want  you  here  !  •  No 
body  comes  near  me  now  !  I  want  to  look  at  your  eyes ! 
Let  me  eat  your  cheeks !  They  're  good — I  know  they  're 
good!  Come,  and  let  me  get  hold  of  you !" 

And  then  following  up  these  crazy  importunities  with 
syllables  that  no  being  entirely  human  could  have,  uttered, 
he  clutched  at  the  boy  fiercely  through  the.  bars  of  his 
prison,  while  his  eyes  gleamed  with  a  still  increased  wild- 
ness  and  ferocity. 

"  O — o — h  !  I  must  have  you !"  again  he  cried.  "  I 
must  get  you  !  Come  to  me  here  !  Come  in  the  reach 
of  my  hands  !  I  know  you,  though  you  don't  think  so  ! 
I  know  your  name!  I've  seen  your  mother!  Yes;  I 
know  the  story ;  it 's  a  long  one ;  but  I  shall  tell  it  some 
time  or  other  ;  just  listen,  and  see  if  I  don't !  Come — 
come  up  to  these  bars !  Let  me  look  into  your  eyes ! 
They're  gray,  I  know!  I  like  gray  eyes;  they  burn  so 
into  the  brain !  Come  and  let  me  bite  once  into  your 
cheek  !" — and  then  followed  once  more  those  idiotic 
sounds  from  the  throat. 

Some  indescribable  fascination  took  possession  of  the 
boy,  for  gradually  he  moved  nearer  and  nearer  the  de- 


A    CIIASE    ABOUND    THE    CHIMNEY.  27 

mented  prisoner,  keeping  Ins  eyes  all  the  time  fixed  on 
the  glaring  eyes  of  the  latter.  If  he  was  terrified  with 
what  he  saw,  it  must  have  been  a  terror  mixed  strangely 
with  a  charm  ;  for  there  was  some  sort  of  an  influence 
exerted  upon  him  that  could  have  been  little  short  of 
downright  infatuation. 

Just  as  he  had  reached  the  point  midway  between  the 
great  chimney  and  the  cage  of  the  maniac,  and  appeared 
to  hesitate  over  the  safety  of  advancing  a  single  step  fur 
ther,  the  prisoner  made  a  sudden  rush  with  hands,  head 
and  feet  at  the  door,  and  with  the  effort  that  only  one  in 
sane  could  be  believed  able  to  make,  he  burst  down  the 
barrier  with  as  much  ease  as  if  it  had  been  mere  wicker- 
work,  and  precipitated  himself  on  Gabriel. 

So  unexpected  was  the  onset,  the  boy  was  quite  over 
whelmed  with  terror ;  and  setting  up  a  loud  cry  of  af 
fright  and  despair,  he  ran  backward  to  the  chimney  and 
endeavored  to  secrete  himself  from  his  dangerous  pursuer. 
But  he  found  that  the  latter  was  already  close  upon  him. 
He  could  hear  him  as  he  struck  down  his  bare  heels  with 
all  his  force  on  the  floor.  He  fancied  he  could  see  his  fly 
ing  hair,  his  glaring  eyes,  and  his  distorted  features,  over 
his  shoulders.  He  even  imagined  he  could  feel  his  hot 
and  sickly  breath  upon  his  neck,  and  that  he  was  ready 
with  his  thin  and  livid  lips  to  whisper  something  startling 
in  his  ears. 

One  loud  and  prolonged  shriek — it  was  a  shriek  of  real 
agony — the  child  set  up,  and  then  ran  round  and  round 
the  chimney  for  his  very  life.  Still  he  could  hear  the 
sound  of  that  terrible  creature's  footsteps  close  behind 
him.  Still  he  could  catch  the  pantings  of  his  lungs,  as  he 
grew  more  and  more  excited  with  the  chase.  Once  or 
twice  he  thought  he  could  hold  out  no  longer,  but  must 
sink  down  to  the  floor  from  sheer  exhaustion.  His  limbs 


28      A  CHASE  ABOUND  1HE  CHIMNEY. 

grew  weaker  very  sensibly.  His  knees  almost  smote 
together,  and  he  thought  they  would  give  him  their  sup 
port  but  a  moment  longer.  He  caught  hold  by  the  cor 
ners  of  the  chimney  as  he  went  round,  endeavoring  to 
steady  himself  in  a  flight  that  was  fast  becoming  so  ir 
regular. 

At  just  the  last  moment,  and  barely  in  time  to  take  ad 
vantage  of  the  only  means  of  escape  left  him,  he  hap 
pened  in  the  course  of  his  frightful  circuits  to  spy  the 
open  trap-door  through  which  he  had  come  up ;  and 
making  an  effort  that  he  could  hardly  have  believed  he 
had  strength  enough  left  for,  he  sprang  agilely  down 
through  the  opening,  and  was  doubly  surprised  to  find 
himself  caught  suddenly  in  another  person's  arms,  and  the 
trap-door  shut  with  a  loud  bang  over  his  head. 

"  Gabriel !  Gabriel !  what  did  you  go  up  there  for  ?" 
asked  a  female  voice,  whose  possessor  was  Mrs.  Joy,  one 
of  the  unfortunate  inmates  of  the  place.  "  How  come 
you  to  go  up  there  ?" 

He  was  too  much  terrified,  and  too  much  out  of  breath, 
to  make  her  any  answer,  but  suffered  himself  to  be  half 
led  and  half  carried  down  into  his  little  room  again.  Mrs. 
Joy  took  care  to  secure  the  two  doors  behind  her,  and 
hurried  away  to  acquaint  Mr.  Hardcastle  with  the  situa 
tion  of  the  maniac,  his  Avild  cries  and  howlings  reverber 
ating  through  the  upper  part  of  the  house. 

Mrs.  Joy  afterward  sat  down  with  Gabriel  on  the  side 
of  his  little  bed,  and  there  talked  with  him  of  his  mother, 
and  of  the  place  where  he  lived,  and  of  the  people  whc 
were  there  around  him,  until  he  had  in  a  great  degree 
recovered  from  his  fright,  and  his  terror  had  changed  into 
tears  for  the  memory  of  his  mother. 


CHAPTER  III. 

BOUND    OUT. 

"  You  'LL  take  the  boy  then,  Mr.  Nubbles,  will  you  ?" 
said  the  Selectman  of  Epping,  conversing  in  an  undeni 
able  business  style — and  in  no  other — with  a  man  who 
had  come  from  a  neighboring  town  to  decide  upon  the 
matter. 

"  Wai,  as  for  that,  Mr.  Jorum,  I  'spose  I  shall ;  but  I 
don't  quite  make  up  my  mind  yet.  I  must  see  him  fust, 
you  know." 

"  Oh,  yes ;  certainly,  Mr.  Nubbles !  You  shall  see 
him,  of  course.  .A  good  boy  he  is,  Mr.  Nubbles  ;  got  ex 
actly  the  right  kind  of  principles ;  never 's  been  tampered 
with  by  nobody — and  that  sp'iles  'em  full  as  often  as  any 
thing,  now  days ;  never  been  bound  out  yet  to  human 
bein' :  all  good  and  new,  he  is!  Yes,  of  course  you  shall 
see  him,  Mr.  Nubbles.  I  thought  you  had." 

"  No,  I  hav'  n't.  Shall  we  go  now  ?  I  never  shall  hev' 
any  more  time,  as  I  know  on." 

"  Yes,  we  '11  go  now,"  assented  Mr.  Jorum.  "  Besides," 
he  added,  as  they  turned  and  walked  away  together— 
"  besides,  Mr.  Nubbles,  you  know  the  town  don't  want  to 
keep  such  things  on  its  hands  any  longer  than 's  abso 
lutely  necessary.  You  understand  ?" 

Was  there  any  covert  sneer  meant  in  the  use  of  that 
word  thing,  that  the  Selectman  of  Epping  employed 


30  BOUND     OUT. 

with  such  a  contemptible  flippancy  ?  Would  a  stranger 
have  thought  so,  do  you  suppose,  had  he  himself  heard 
the  expression,  and  seen  the  indescribable  look  with  which 
it  was  accompanied  ? 

Arrived  at  length  at  the  door  of  the  dreary  old  poor- 
house,  they  immediately  entered  the  room  where  all  the 
paupers  were  seated  loungingly  around,  and  fell  to  the 
business  in  hand.  By  mere  accident  only,  Mr.  Hardcastle 
in  a  few  moments  got  wind  of  the  new  arrival,  and  hur 
ried  into  the  apartment  to  make  himself  officially  and 
commendably  useful  in  the  matter  that  was  going  for 
ward. 

It  was  in  the  middle  of  a  wintery  afternoon,  bleak  and 
raw  without,  and  hardly  less  cheerless  within.  Men  and 
women  listened  and  looked  on  with  greedy  curiosity, 
eager  to  see  and  know  all.  Old  Nathan  Grubb  had  suc 
ceeded  hitherto  in  securing  the  friendship  of  Gabriel,  and 
was  just  now  occupied  with  talking  to  him  in  the  most 
agreeable  and  consolatory  manner  he  was  able.  Both 
the  old  man  and  the  boy  looked  up  in  a  little  surprise  as 
the  two  strangers  entered  the  room. 

"  Yonder 's  your  boy,"  said  Mr.  Jorum,  in  a  remark 
ably  strong  voice,  pointing  with  his  finger  exactly  at  the 
face  of  Gabriel. 

"  Ah  !  yes,  yes !" 

That  was  all  Mr.  Nubbles  ventured ;  and  forthwith  he 
fell  to  staring  at  the  orphan  most  unmercifully.  He  then 
ran  his  eyes  rapidly  up  and  down  his  person,  surveying 
his  figure  and  limbs  as  he  would  have  surveyed  a  young 
colt,  fearing  lest  he  might  become  somehow  a  loser  by 
his  bargain. 

"  Not  very  strong  in  the  j'ints,  I  shouldn't  judge,"  he 
finally  remarked,  turning  to, the  Selectman,  who  had  been 
idly  drumming  with  his  fingers  on  the  back  of  a  chair. 


BOUND     OUT.  31 

"Ah,  Mr.  Nubbles,"  said  he,  "  you  don't  know.  These 
things  are  the  hardest  sort  o'  things  to  tell.  The  fact  is, 
you  may  get  a  prize  just  when  you  ain't  expecting  it,  in 
such  a  matter  as  this.  These  things  don't  go  by  any  rule, 
Mr.  Nubbles." 

Mr.  Nubbles  was  encouraged  to  go  on  with  his  survey. 
The  Selectman  gazed  around  the  room  with  a  look  of  un 
speakable  dignity,  and  awaited  the  course  of  Mr.  Nubbles's 
investigation  quite  calmly.  "  Bright  looking  ?"  finally 
suggested  the  latter,  turning  his  face  on  that  of  the  town 
official. 

"  Certainly  he  is ;  uncommonly  so,  I  think,"  assented 
Mr.  Jorum. 

"  He  may  do  to  run  of  arrants  awhile,  perhaps — " 

"  Yes,  just  so  ;  and  do  heavier  work  by  and  by,"  inter 
rupted  Mr.  Jorum. 

"  Exactly ;  yis.     Is  he  healthy,  do  you  know  ?" 

"Perfectly  so,  I  believe;  isn't  he,  Mr.  Hardcastle? 
You  know  all  about  it.  Mr.  Nubbles  here  talks  of  haviti' 
him  bound  out  to  him :  taking  him  oif  your  hands  you 
know.  Perfectly  healthy,  ain't  he,  Mr.  Hardcastle  ?" 

"  I  frlieve  so,"  answered  the  keeper.  "  I  'm  sure,  I 
never  knew  nothin'  to  the  contrary.  Ain't  very  big,  as 
you  can  see  for  yourself;  but  never 's  sick  at  all,  not  sense 
he 's  been  with  me ;  and  that 's  sense  a  year  ago,  comin' 
next  spring." 

"  Hear  that,  Mr.  Nubbles,  don't  you  ?"  asked  the  Se 
lectman. 

"  No,"  reaffirmed  Mr.  Hardcastle,  wishing  to  please 
his  principal  all  he  could,  "  I  reck'n  that  boy  never  see  a 
sick  day  yet.  Mis'  Hardcastle,  you  know  Mr.  Jorum,  is 
one  o'  the  very  best  o'  nurses.  There's  no  denyin'  that, 
now." 

"  Yes,  I  believe  she  is.    There 's  as  little  expensive  sick- 


32  BOUND    OUT. 

ness  in  this  house,  Mr.  Nubbles,  I  '11  venture  to  say,  as  in 
any  house  of  the  same  kind  in  any  town  in  New  England, 
I  don't  care  where  the  town  is.  Yes,  sir ;  I  think  we 
might  congratulate  ourselves  as  a  town,  that  we  've  got 
as  good  a  doctor  here  as  we  've  got  housekeeper.  There 's 
a  great  deal  in  that,  Mr.  Nubbles !"  and  he  lengthened 
out  the  word  great,  till  the  very  sound  of  it  made  a  deep 
impression  no  less  on  the  paupers  assembled  than  on  Mr. 
Nubbles's  own  self. 

"Does  Mr.  Nubbles  talk  of  takin'  the  boy?"  asked  the 
poor-house  keeper,  directing  his  attention  to  the  Selectman. 

"  Yes,  he  does,"  said  Mr.  Jorum,  rather  curtly. 

"  Then  I  can  tell  him  he  '11  git  a  mighty  nice  boy  for 
his  bargain  ;  that 's  all  I  can  say  about  it.  The  boy  's 
nothin'  more  nor  less  than  a  treasure;  and  I  rather 
reckon  Mr.  Nubbles  '11  find  it  out  'fore  he  gits  through 
with  it !" 

"  I  guess  I  '11  take  him,"  finally  spoke  out  the  latter,  as 
if  he  were  going  to  make  the  best  of  a  bad  bargain.  "  I 
must  try  and  do  somethiri*  with  him." 

The  Selectman  thereupon  drew  up  to  a  little  table,  and 
borrowing  from  Mr.  Hardcastle  a  small  volume  of  legal 
forms  that  he  usually  kept  by  him,  squared  away  at  a 
large  sheet  of  rather  smutty  foolscap,  and  commenced 
copying  and  filling  up  the  skeleton  of  an  "  indenture." 
Meanwhile  Mr.  Hardcastle  removed  Gabriel  to  the  apart 
ment  sacred  to  his  wife's  uses,  where  he  found  her,  as 
usual,  surrounded  with  all  the  comforts  she  could,  by  par 
simonious  economy,  impress  into  a  place  like  that,  and  to 
whom  he  pi'oceeded  to  communicate  the  exact  state  of 
things. 

"  You  '11  git  him  ready,  Mis'  Hardcastle,  won't  ye," 
said  he,  "  while  I  go  out  in  t'  other  room  with  Mr.  Jorum  ? 
I  can't  stop,  ye  see." 


BOUND    OUT.  33 

"  But  what 's  to  hinder  your  gittin'  the  boy  ready 
yourself,  I  want  to  know  ?"  returned  his  amiable  spouse. 
"  I  'm  sure  I  don't  see,  for  the  life  of  me,  what  the'  is  to 
be  done!  He  hain't  got  no  clo's,  as  I  know  on,  except 
what  he  's  got  on  his  back  this  minnit ;  and  as  for  givin' 
him  an  outfit,  jest  because  he's  goin'  away,  it's  a  thing, 
Mr.  Hardcastle,  I  can't  in  any  conscience  do  !  It 's  a 
thing,  furthermore,  Mr.  Hardcastle,  that  I  shan't  do ! 
You  can  git  him  ready  as  well  as  1  can." 

"But  you  see,  Mis'  Hardcastle,"  plead  he,  "you  see 
they  want  me  in  t'other  room!" 

"What  for,  now?"  she  asked,  looking  him  full  in  the 
face. 

"  Wha'  for !  Why,  to  help  about  drawin'  up  the  writ- 
in's  and  things,  of  course." 

"Then  go  in  t'other  room  wW^you,"  said  she;  "but 
I  tell  you  once  for  all,  that  boy's  got  nothin'  at  all  to 
pack.  If  he 's  bound  out  to  any  body  it  '11  be  without 
any  clothiri1,  I  'm  very  sure !" 

Upon  this  Mr.  Hardcastle  returned  to  the  other  apart 
ment,  and  posted  himself  exactly  behind  the  chair  of  the 
Selectman,  looking  with  the  eye  of  a  haAvk  over  his  shoul 
der  at  every  mark,  sign  and  letter  that  was  made,  and 
upon  every  word  that  was  written.  Now  and  then,  dur 
ing  the  respite  of  a  brief  conversation  between  the  Select 
man  and  Mr.  Nubbles,  he  marched  stridingly  around  the 
room  among  his  brow-beaten  and  spirit-broken  subjects, 
as  if  with  a  desire  to  impress  them  afresh  with  the  conse 
quence  to  which  he  had  that  day  attained ;  and  then  he 
walked  deliberately  and  impressively  back  to  his  place 
near  the  table  again.  The  precise  amount  of  assistance 
he  rendered  on  this  occasion  it  might  be  easier  for  him 
self  than  for  any  one  else  present  to  compute. 

At  last  the  instrument,  legally  known  as  the  indenture, 
2* 


34  BOUND    OUT. 

was  finished.  Already  were  the  many  threads  of  the 
afternoon  beginning  to  draw  together,  and  Mr.  Nubbles 
had  still  ten  miles,  or  such  a  matter,  to  ride  before  he 
would  reach  home.  He  started  up  rather  abruptly  from 
:.  his  seat,  and  proceeded  to  button  his  coarse  shaggy  over 
coat  about  him. 

"  "Wai,"  said  he  ;  "  where  's  my  boy  now  ?" 

"  All  ready  for  ye,"  retufhed  Mr.  Hardcastle  with  alac 
rity  ;  "  waitin'  here  jest  in  the  next  room." 

They  went  out  into  the  entry,  and  there  stood  little 
Gabriel,  thinly  enough  clad  for  such  a  time  as  that,  with 
out  any  over-garment,  without  the  slightest  protection  for 
his  hands,  and  bitterly  crying. 

"  What 's  the  matter  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Jorum,  affecting 
a  feeling  of  tenderness,  now  he  had  got  the  pauper  off  his 
hands.  "  What  do  you  cry  for  ?  Don't  you  want  to  go 
where  you  '11  have  a  new  home  ?  It  is  n't  every  one  that 
can  get  as  good  a  home  as  you  ">re  going  to.  Just  remem 
ber  that,  will  you  ?  and  then  stop  your  crying." 

"  Hain't  he  got  no  Overcoat  ?"  asked  Mr.  Nubbles, 
possibly  as  anxious  to  secure  all  the  boy's  clothes  as  to 
provide  any  thing  additional  for  his  comfort.  "  He  '11 
freeze !" 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Hardcastle ;  "  he  '11  have  to  do  with 
out.     He  had  n't  none  when  he  come  here,  and  we  've 
managed   one  way  and  another  somehow  to  keep  him 
warm  without." 
«      "  Nor  mittens,  neither  ?"  pursued  Mr.  Nubbles. 

"  He  had  a  pair,  but  he  did  n't  take  care  on  'em  at  all, 
and  they  're  pootey  much  worn  out,  I  guess,  by  this  time." 

Mr.  Nubble-s  humanely  proposed  to  borrow  something 
to  wrap  him  in,  for  the  ride  was  to  be  a  long  and  a  cold 
one  ;  besides,  they  were  to  make  the  journey  in  an  open 
wagon. 


BOUND     OUT.  35 

"  You  '11  fetch  it  back  agin  if  I  lend  you  an  old  coat  ?" 
said  Mr.  Hardcastle. 

"  Certain  :  if  I  don't,  I  can  send  it  to  you,  you  know." 
Then  he  turned  upon  Gabriel, -while  the  keeper  had  gone 
for  the  garment  in  question :  "  Don't  you  want  to  go* 
home  with  me,  my  little  lad,"  said  he.  Gabriel  felt  too 
sad  to  make  any  answer ;  he  had  strange  thoughts  even 
for  a  child  of  his  years,  and  such  as  he  could  not  com 
municate. 

Pretty  soon  Mr.  Hardcastle  returned.  He  held  a  gro 
tesque  article  of.  wearing  apparel  in  his  hand,  quartered 
and  divided  up  into  innumerable  pieces — stripes,  patches, 
and  mosaic — of  every  variety  of  size,  shape  and  color. 
It  seemed  to  be  a  work  more  for  human  curiosity  to  feed 
on  than  for  a  human  being  to  keep  warm  with. 

Clapping  it  suddenly  over  Gabriel's  shoulders,  so  that 
it  almost  buried  him  up  in  its  enveloping  folds,  Mr. 
Hardcastle  bade  the,  boy  keep  up  good  heart  and  make 
the  best  of  every  tning,  and  he  would  get  along. 

He  was  "  getting  along"  even  then  ! 

When  his  old  master  bade  him  good-by,  and  watched 
him  afterward  as  he  followed  Mr.  Nubbles  across  the 
yard  to  his  wagon,  he  really  presented  a  ludicrous  sight, 
though  a  sorry  one.  But  far  beneath  the  humor  that 
would  have  been  stirred  in  a  looker-on,  was  another  feel 
ing — that  of  the  profoundest  pity.  Once  or  twice  Gabriel 
turned  partly  round  to  catch  a  final  look  at  the  old 
house — filled  with  dear  memories  to  him,  yet  otherwise 
so  forbidding — and  the  tears  blinded  his  eyes  and  ran 
down  his  cheeks. 

"  Come  on  !"  called  Mr.  Nubbles.     "  Faster !" 

Gabriel  made  an  effort  to  run  in  order  to  catch  up ; 
and  in  so  doing  he  nearly  threw  himself  down  from  en 
tanglement  in  the  folds  of  his  enormous  garment.  As  he 


36  BOUND    OUT. 

climbed  into  Mr.  Nubble's  wagon,  he  threw  his  last  look 
•  -half  sorrowful  and  half  wistful — in  the  direction  of  the 
old  Epping  poor-house. 

It  was  dark,  or  very  nearly  so,  when  they  came  to 
|heir  journey's  end.  The  orphan  could  only  comprehend, 
in  the  midst  of  his  excitement  and  the  gloomy  evening 
shadows  that  were  falling  around  him,  that  he  had  arrived 
at  a  shed  standing  but  a  few  yards  from  a  house,  in  which 
were  indiscriminately  piled  away  old  wagons,  cart  bodies, 
sleighs,  barrels,  and  odd  wheels,  with  an  additional  variety 
of  trumpery  that  he  could  not  distinguish,  and  through 
the  whole  of  which  the  horse  was  to  be  conducted  to  his 
stall  in  the  barn. 

"  You  stan'  here,"  said  Mr.  Nubbles,  "  while  I  put  my 
horse  out."  And  Gabriel  stood  there,  and  shivered  and 
shook  with  the  cold. 

When  at  length  his  new  friend  was  quite  ready,  he 
sallied  forth  from  the  barn-door — wherever  in  the  dark 
ness  that  may  be — and  came  upon  Gabriel  through  the 
mysterious  alley  of  barrels  and  wagon-wheels  with  con 
siderable  suddenness. 

"  Now  we  '11  go  in,"  said  he.     "  Jest  foller  arter  me." 

The  high  kitchen-door  opened,  and  the  boy  immedi 
ately  found  himself  in  a  spacious  room  much  larger  than 
he  remembered  ever  to  have  seen  in  a  country  farm-house 
before,  with  a  flashing  and  blazing  fire  on  a  very  broad 
hearth  that  sufficed  to  light  the  entire  apartment  with  its 
dazzling  flames.  A  starved  and  shriveled  tallow-candle 
burned  on  a  table  against  the  further  wall,  at  which  stood 
a  tall,  thin,  shrewish-looking  woman,  her  hair  very  much 
snarled  and  tangled,  peeling  potatoes  into  a  deep  wooden 
tray.  She  was  preparing  a  supper  of  mincemeat  against 
the  arrival  of  Mr.  Nubbles. 

On  each  side  of  the  hearth  that  extended  very  far  out 


BOUND    OUT.  37 

into  the  room,  stood  a  wooden  chair  or  two  of  odd  pat 
terns  and  sizes,  in  one  of  which  was  sitting  a  good-sized 
boy  gazing  stupidly  into  the  fire.  He  owned  a  round 
pumpkin-shaped  head,  whose  carroty  hair  was  cut  low 
over  his  forehead  after  the  law  of  a  perfectly  straight 
line ;  and  in  his  face  lurked  an  impression  that  he  might 
not  yet  be  altogether  "  done,"  in  spite  of  his  habit  of 
hugging  to  the  fire  so  persistently.  When  Gabriel  en 
tered  he  looked  up  from  the  fire  at  him  with  an  expression 
of  the  most  settled  stupidity.  His  eyes  were  like  dead 
and  dull  fish  eyes ;  the  protruding  cheeks  seemed  trying 
to  close  them  entirely.  His  half  turned-up  nose  gave  his 
countenance  an  additional  expression  of  insensibility  to 
every  thing  not  related  to  those  two  pursuits — eating  and 
drinking — and  his  lips  were  not  at  all  behindhand  in 
making  complete  the  original  design  of  the  picture.  As 
he  looked  up  at  Gabriel  his  mother  at  the  table  turned 
round  likewise. 

"  Hullo,  father !"  saluted  the  boy,  grasping  a  knee  in 
each  hand. 

"  You  see  I  've  fetched  him,"  said  Mr.  Nubbles  to  his 
wife,  who  stood  regarding  the  youngling  with  a  look  he 
thought  decidedly  ferocious. 

"Wai,"  said  she,  quite  slow  in  her  articulation;  "I 
sh'd  think  you  had !"  And  she  fell  to  piercing  and  rid 
dling  him  with  her  gimlet  gray  eyes  again. 

Mr.  Nubbles  took  off  the  orphan's  borrowed  greatcoat, 
and  bade  him  go  warm  himself  by  the  fire. 

"  What  do  you  s'pose  he 's  good  for,  now  ?"  began  the 
mistress  of  the  place,  concentrating  the  very  verjuice  of 
her  persimmon  nature  into  a  single  look  at  her  husband. 

"  Good  for !"  exclaimed  he.     "  Work,  to  be  sure !" 

"  Don't  you  be  too  sure  o'  that,  let  me  tell  you  !  See 
what  a  little  bony  thing  he  is !  Look  at  his  hands,  and 


38  .  BOUND    OUT. 

his  doll  arms,  and  his  tender  flesh !  Just  see  what  dread, 
ful  slight  build  he  's-  got !  Why,  I  could  almost  blow 
him  away  with  my  own  breath !  Pshaw,  Nahum  Nub 
bles  !  Pshaw,  I  say,  Nahum !  You  are  a  smart  man,  as 
every  body  'H  say !" 

"Hold  on,"  said  the  husband.  "You  're  in  a  little  too 
big  hurry,  I  guess,  about  it.  Jest  give  my  little  chap  a 
trial  first.  You  don't  know  yet  what  there  may  be  in 
his  gristle.  Wait  till  you  've  tried  him  once,  Kitty." 

"  Him  /"  ejaculated  the  wife  very  contemptuously  in 
reply,  still  holding  the  knife  and  fork  with  which  she  had 
been  taking  off  the  jackets  of  the  potatoes;  "I  wouldn't 
IqoJc  at  him  ;  he  can't  earn  his  porridge ;  no,  nor  even  the 
salt  he  '11  need  to  put  into  it !  See  him,  now — the  poor, 
lean,  shaky,  starved-to-death,  miserable  little  wretch ! — 
and  then  look  at  our  Kit  by  the  side  of  him !  See  the 
difference  for  yourself,  will  you,  if  you  can!  No,  no — 
I  say — don't  bring  any  of  your  little  weazen-bodied  fel 
lows  to  me !  If  you  do  they  '11  be  pretty  sure  to  get 
worked  to  death,  and  that 's  all  I  've  got  to  say  about  it !" 

"  Wai,  work  'em  as  hard  as  you  're  a  mind  to,  then," 
answered  Mr.  Nubbles.  "  It 's  nothing  to  me,  I  am  sure. 
Come ;  I  sh'd  .like  my  supper :  I  'm  hungry  if  you  've 
stopped  to  think  of  it!" 

"  Hungry  !"  sneered  the  gaunt  female  again ;  "  I  sh'd 
reckon  you  would  be,  ridin'  home  with  such  a  hungry- 
lookin'  chap  as  that  all  the  time  before  your  eyes !  I  'm 
sure,  Nahum  Nubbles,  I'd  never  rob  the  poor  crows, 
'specially  at  this  time  o'  year,  when  it 's  harder  'n  usual 
for  'em  to  git  their  livin',  you  see !"  And  upon  this  she 
turned  immediately  around  to  her  tray,  and  soon  had  the 
broad  blade  of  her  chopping-knife  slicing  and  mincing  to 
gether  the  meat  and  potatoes,  of  which  that  wooden  dish 
had  been  made  the  receptacle. 


BOUND    OUT.  39 

At  the  fire  young  Kit  sat  eyeing  the  little  desolate- 
looking  stranger  with  every  bit  of  the  intensity  of  which 
his  dead  eyes  were  capable ;  not  for  a  single  moment  re 
moving  them  from  his  face  and  person.  He  inspected  his 
clothes,  every  article  and  rag  of  them,  one  by  one;  now 
his  short  and  thin  jacket ;  now  his  insufficient  shoes,  over 
the  rough  .and  horny  edges  of  which  his  coarse  blue 
stockings  dangled  about  his  heels;  and  now  his  short- 
limbed  pantaloons,  as  short  as  they  well  could  be,  whether 
consistently  or  inconsistently  with  comfort.  Then  he  fell 
foul  of  his  face,  and  studied  with  commendable  care 
every  lineament,  staring  chiefly,  however — as  he  naturally 
would — at  his  highly  expressive  and  beautiful  eyes.  Ga 
briel  began  to  grow  a  trifle  uneasy  under  this  annoying 
infliction,  and  looked  from  him  to  the  fire,  and  from  the 
fire  again  to  him,  folding  and  unfolding  his  hands  in  his 
lap  continually. 

Mr.  Nubbles  had  absented  himself  from  the  room.  To 
tell  the  exact  truth,  Mr.  Nubbles  had  gone  out  in  obedi 
ence  to  what  was  quite  a  regular  habit  with  him,  whether 
about  going  from  home,  or  recently  returned  to  that 
spot;  he  had  just  stepped  out,  as  he  humorously  ex 
pressed  himself,  to  "  wet  his  whistle."  So  the  woman 
finding  herself  all  alone  with  the  boys  suddenly  stopped 
the  motion  of  her  chopping-knife,  and  called  out  to  her 
son — 

"Why  don't  you  speak  to  him,  Christopher?  See 
if  he  can  talk  I  See  if  he  knows  any  thing,  why  don't 
you  ?" 

Kit,  the  family  pet,  on  being  thus  appealed  to,  merely 
suffered  his  eyes  to  slide,  by  a  motion  peculiar  to  himself, 
from  the  object  on  which  they  had  long  been  fixed  over 
to  his  encouraging  mother — and  then  as  quietly  suffered 
them  to  slide  back  again. 


40  BOUND    OUT. 

"  Ask  him  what  Ms  name  is,  Kit,"  persisted  his  mother, 
rising  to  empty  the  contents  of  her  tray  into  a  spider. 

"  It 's  Gabriel  Vane,"  timidly  yet  trustingly  answered 
the  orphan,  hoping  by  his  own  promptness  to  get  their 
favor  in  advance. 

"Gabriel?"  sneered  and  laughed  Mrs.  Nubbles. 
"Named  after  the  angel,  I  s'pose  ?" 

"  Ma'am  ?"  inquired  he,  thinking  she  had  soberly  put 
him  a  question  that  he  must  answer. 

"No  matter,"  she  replied,  a  little  abashed  by  the  in 
nocent  tone  in  which  he  spoke;  and  immediately  she 
placed  the  spider  full  of  mince-meat  upon  some  coals  she 
had  drawn  out  on  the  hearth,  and  drew  the  supper  table 
into  the  middle  of  the  floor.  Just  then  Mr.  Nubbles  made 
his  appearance  again,  coughing  and  wiping  his  lips  with 
his  sleeve. 

"  I  wish  you  \vould  n't  leave  your  company  for  me  to 
entertain,"  said  his  wife,  clapping  down  the  plates,  and 
knives  and  forks  upon  the  bare  table  as  fast  as  she  could. 

"  For  you  /"  said  Mr.  Nubbles.  "  Ha !  ha  !  I  did  n't. 
Kit,  can't  you  amuse  the  boy  ?  Kit,"  he  repeated,  sidling 
up  to  his  son  and  pretending  to  speak  in  a  tone  of  pro 
found  secrecy  to  him,  though  Gabriel  could  hear  what  he 
said  as  well  as  Kit — "  I  've  brought  home  somebody  to 
do  your  chores  for  ye  !  How  d'  ye  like  that  ?" 

"I  like  it,  father,"  answered  the  pig-like  young  crea 
ture.  "  I  git  sick  o'  cleanin'  out  the  stable,  and  feedin' 
the  hogs,  and  doin'  all  such  things.  I  don't  like  to  do  it, 
father.  Shan't  I  have  nothin'  to  do,  then?  Thunder! 
that's  good,  ain't  it?"  And  the  youth  chuckled,  and 
swelled  out  his  fat  cheeks,  and  squeezed  together  his 
small  eyes,  and  drew  in  his  head  like  a  mud-turtle  within 
his  collar,  till  his  father  laughed  aloud  to  see  what  ex 
cellent  spirits  he  had  been  the  means  of  putting  him  in. 


BOUND    OUT.  41 

"  Yes,  but  there  's  work  enough  for  you  to  do,  Chris 
topher,"  interrupted  his  mother,  who  was  now  taking  up 
the  smoking  mince-meat  into  a  brown  earthen  dish  ;  "  but 
then,  I  don't  calc'late  any  child  of  mine  '11  ever  live  to  do 
what's  for  another  to  do,  sich  a  one  as  that  one  yonder 
for  instance." 

"  You  're  right  there,  Miss  Nubbles,"  returned  her  hus 
band.  "  I'm  with  you  there,  Kitty." 

And  after  this  little  passage  all  sat  down  to  table  ex 
cept  Gabriel ;  he  hesitated. 

"  Come,  set  up,"  called  Mr.  Nubbles. 

"  I  don't  wish  any,"  said  Gabriel,  scarcely  knowing  what 
excuse  he  could  make  that  would  seem  even  plausible. 

"  Don't  want  any  !     Yes,  you  do.     Set  up  here." 

"  La !  Mr.  Nubbles,"  broke  in  his  wife,  "  I  would  n't 
force  him  to  eat  against  his  will,  I  'm  sure.  Do  let  him 
go  without  if  he  wants  to.  His  appetite  will  come  to  him 
soon  enough  for  our  purpose,  I  '11  warrant  you." 

Could  she  at  that  moment  have  looked  into  Gabriel's 
heart,  she  would  have  seen  that  he  was  sincerely  thanking 
her  for  her  timely  interference. 

"  What 's  the  odds  ?"  she  went  on,  coarsely.  "  If  he 
feels  as  if  this  wasn't  good  enough  for  him,  then  let  him 
go  back  to  old  Epping  poorhouse  again.  Perhaps  he  '11 
manage  to  find  something  better  over  there  !" 

"  I  don't  feel  hungry,"  meekly  put  in  Gabriel. 

"  Wai,  but  you  'd  better  set  up  even  if  you  don't," 
said  Mr.  Nubbles ;  "  you  can't  tell  when  you  may  be." 
So  Gabriel  reluctantly  complied,  and  took  his  place  be 
tween  the  husband  and  the  wife,  and  exactly  opposite 
Kit.  That  youth  had  not  wasted  any  time  on  prelim 
inary  ceremonies.  Seizing  his  knife  and  fork  the  instant 
he  sat  down  with  a  gluttonous  wink  of  his  dead  eyes,  and 
a  contortion  of  his  countenance  that  was  mistakingly 


42  BOUND     OUT. 

meant  for  an  unbounded  expression  of  delight,  he  dove 
like  an  expert  swimmer  right  to  the  bottom  of  his  work, 
and  came  up  to  the  surface  again  with  his  mouth  and 
cheeks  crammed  to  distention  with  the  hot  mince-meat  he 
had  watched  while  cooking  with  such  envious  greediness. 
Gabriel  only  sipped  a  little  tea,  which  Mrs.  Nubbles 
was  considerate  enough  to  make  very  weak  for  him ;  and 
ate  a  mouthful  or  two  of  brown  crust,  but  nothing  more. 
His  eyes  wandered  every  where  about  the  room,  and  upon 
every  body  and  every  thing  its  four  great  walls  contained. 
It  seemed  to  him  as  if  his  olden  griefs  had  now  been  not 
only  entirely  renewed  but  increased  fourfold. 


CHAPTER  IT. 

KIT    NUBBLES. 

P 

GABRIEL  was  allowed  a  bed  in  a  further  corner  of  the 
wretched  old  garret,  almost  under  the  very  furthest  reach 
of  the  eaves,  where  through  the  wide  cracks  and  chinks 
the  raw  air  poured  in  on  all  sides  in  jets  and  spouts,  and 
streams.  A  straw  bed  fell  to  his  share,  meagerly  supplied 
with  straw  at  that ;  and  his  feet  stood  on  the  icy  cold 
floor  every  night  he  drew  off  his  stockings. 

The  sad-hearted  boy  liked  most  to  get  off  early  to  bed 
at  night,  where  he  felt  secure  from  the  unfeeling  attacks 
so  plentifully  made  on  him  by  the  rest  of  the  household  ; 
and  where  too,  he  might  in  peaceful  though  sorrowful  si 
lence,  let  his  thoughts  go  out  to  his  dear,  dear  mother. 
Tears  almost  nightly  wet  his  pillow.  When  he  did  get 
permission  to  go  to  bed,  he  was  generally  so  tired  with 
his  work,  and  so  much  saddened  with  his  day's  busy 
thoughts,  that  tears  brought  him  the  only  relief  he  ever 
felt.  So  he  often  wept  himself  asleep  under  the  low 
eaves  of  the  dreary  garret,  and  knew  nothing  more  of 
his  griefs  until  morning. 

Why  was  Mrs.  Nubbles  indulgent  enough  to  give  him 
a  bed  by  himself?  It  is  a  question,  really.  Her  husband 
had  once  taken  the  liberty  to  put  her  the  very  same  one 
himself. 

"  Do  you  think  I  'd  have  a  poor,  puny,  decayed  little 


44  KIT     NUBBLES. 

pauper  sleep  in  the  same  bed  with  our  Christopher — our 
only  child,  Nahum  Nubbles !"  said  she. 

And  the  reader  has  got  his  answer,  too. 

It  was  Gabriel's  lot  to  be  kept  at  work  continually. 
Mrs.  Nubbles  said  that  if  it  was  in  him,  she  was  deter 
mined  to  get  it  out  of  him  ;  and  therefore  set  him  about 
all  the  odds  and  ends  of  labor,  both  in  doors  and  out, 
that  she  could  pick  up  or  devise.  Now  he  lugged  across 
the  yard  a  heavy  pail  of  swill ;  now  he  carried  potatoes 
and  turnips  in  a  large  basket  that  he  could  scarcely  lift, 
to  the  cows ;  now  he  bore  bundles  of  one  thing  and  an 
other  for  her,  from  the  garret  to  the  cellar,  and  so  back 
again ;  and  now  he  brought  in  heavy  armfuls  of  green 
wood  from  the  door-yard,  picking  the  fuel  from  the  snow 
and  ice  as  he  was  best  able.  Any  thing  to  keep  him  busy. 
Any  thing  to  strain  those  slight  limbs,  and  weaken  that 
slender  chest,  and  break  that  too  fine  spirit. 

On  one  subject  Mrs.  Nubbles  had  put  her  foot  down  at 
the  outset,  and  that  was  that  the  boy  should  be  made  to 
work,  and  do  nothing  but  work.  And  then  what  re 
mained  for  her  husband  but  to  acquiesce  with  all  his  feeble 
might  and  main  in  the  spirit  of  her  energetic  determin 
ation  ?  He  might  be  led  to  this  chiefly  out  of  regard  for 
his  own  comfort ;  for  had  he  ventured  to  cross,  in  the 
least,  the  pleasure  of  his  other  half  in  a  matter  like  this, 
he  would  in  all  probability  have  found  his  wife  and  boy 
both  about  his  ears,  to  his  manifest  disquiet  and  incon 
venience.  So,  on  a  principle'  thought  to  be  pretty  gener 
ally  recognized  in  affairs  of  a  more  public  nature,  he 
yielded  in  silence  to  the  ascertained  will  of  the  majority, 
and  lagged  not  behind  in  the  petty  persecution  he  saw 
was  going  forward. 

The  residence  of  Mr.  Nahum  Nubbles  was  set  upon  an 
elevation  of  land,  from  which  could  be  seen  several  hills 


KIT     NUBBLES.  45 

and  swells  of  ground  more  or  less  covered  with  trees,  and 
around  which  lay  stretched  out  a  tract  of  nature  in  its 
almost  primitive  condition.  Back  from  his  moss-grown 
orchard  reached  the  forest,  with  huge  rocks  sprinkled 
thickly  among  the  trees,  and  rugged  ledges  rising  here 
and  there  within  the  distant  shadows.  The  face  of  the 
ground  was  rough  and  stony  exceedingly ;  so  that  as  Mr. 
Nubbles  was  known  to  get  his  living  altogether  off  his 
farm,  it  was  equally  well  known  that  that  living  must 
be  but  a  lean  one. 

Years  ago  he  had  resided  in  another  town  ;  and  for  a 
man  with  industrious  and  persevering  habits,  probably 
enjoyed  as  good  opportunities  of  rising  in  the  world  as 
the  average.  He  was  once  a  member  of  a  church,  too,  in 
good  standing.  But  becoming  implicated  in  various 
speculating  transactions,  into  which  he  was  drawn  by 
those  far  shrewder  -and  more  designing  than  himself,  he 
found  his  property  iqpensibly  slipping  little  by  little 
through  his  fingers;  and,  to  crown  his  misfortune,  he 
surrendered  himself — for  consolation's  sake,  undoubtedly 
— to  the  habit  of  drinking.  In  his  cups  he  felt  himself 
proof  against  the  heavy  influences  of  adverse  fortune ;  and 
he  then  sometimes  even  hailed  the  intelligence  of  a  fresh 
disaster  with  a  glee  that  could  have  come  from  none  but 
one  half  drunken. 

The  habit  grew  upon  him  immeasurably.  It  was  a  per 
fect  leech  to  him,  all  the  time  crying  out,  "  Give !  give  !" 
Step  by  step  he  went  down — mortgaging  a  piece  of  his 
farm  here,  and  selling  outright  a  fat  slice  there — until  he 

7  O  O 

was  finally  obliged  to  think  seriously  of  abandoning  the 
remainder  of  it  altogether,  and  removing  to  a  place  that 
he  could  secure  with  the  wreck  of  what  was  left.  To  add 
to  his  troubles — if,  indeed,  it  troubled  him  at  all — he  had 
been  formally  dismissed  from  the  church  with  which  he 


46  KIT     NUBBLES. 

had  united,  being  esteemed  an  unworthy  member  and  of 
an  evil  example.    ' 

So  to  do  the  best  he  could  in  the  midst  of  such  an 
emergency,  he  bought  the  run-down,  deserted  old  place 
he  now  occupied,  brown  house,  crazy  sheds,  tumble-down 
barns  and  all — where,  he  said,  he  could  live  out  of  the 
reach  of  people  altogether.  It  was  a  lonely  place,  sure 
enough.  The  house  stood  on  a  little  level  exactly  on  the 
brow  of  the  acclivity,  and  all  around  lay  the  good-for- 
nothing  pastures,  meadows,  orchards  and  fields.  Of  hard 
cider  he  made  as  much  as  of  any  thing  else  ;  he  said  that 
was  all  his  apples  were  good  for.  Of  corn  he  raised  barely 
enough  to  go  through  the  year.  And  of  potatoes,  and 
those  other  indispensable  crops  to  the  farmer,  he  had  not 
much  more  to  say  than  of  the  rest.  Every  thing  looked 
slack  and  behindhand.  There  was  not  the  first  mark  of 
thrift  any  where  to  be  seen.  Carts  and  wagons  were  left 
out  to  fall  to  pieces  through  theyrinter  ;  and  the  summei 
exposure  performed  the  same  business  for  sleighs  and  ox- 
sleds. 

The  place  was  a  good  two  miles  from  the  neighboring 
village,  and  by  a  very  lonely  and  untraveled  road.  Those 
at  the  village  who  spoke  of  it  always  called  it  Worry  witch 
Hill.  It  had  gone  by  that  name  long  before  he  thought 
of  settling  upon  it ;  probably  from  some  far-back  tale 
connected  with  an  old  woman  and  a  witch,  or  something 
equally  well  founded,  that  had  become  traditionary  in  the 
neighborhood.  There  were  scrub-oaks  and  stunted  thorn- 
apples  growing  plentifully  along  the  road  leading  from  the 
village  to  Worrywitch  ;  and  pastures  on  either  side  the 
stone  walls  showed  abundant  crops,  in  their  season,  of 
fern,  mullen,  thistles  and  rocks.  If  a  thrifty  man  were  in 
search  of  good  land,  he  would  have  been  sure,  on  seeing 
this  locality,  to  set  his  face  exactly  the  other  way ;  no 


KIT    NUBBLES.  47 

matter  where  it  led,  it  could  take  him  to  no  worse  a  place 
than  this. 

Gabriel  found  that  his  new  master  was  already  little 
less  than  a  vagabond,  and  his  wife  not  much  more  than  a 
shrew.  •  Their  son  was  a  spoiled  creature,  taught  by 
every  method  to  be  obstinate  and  self-willed,  without  the 
least  particle  of  generosity  in  him,  and  with  as  overbear 
ing  a  disposition  toward  the  orphan  as  he  could  possibly 
muster.  And  between  the  steady  fires  'of  all,  kept  up 
without  intermission  from  the  time  he  first  beheld  them 
in  the  morning  until  he  left  them  for  his  straw  bed  at 
night,  Gabriel  truly  lived  but  a  sorry  life  of  it.  Mr.  Nub 
bles  was  good-natured  to  him  at  times ;  but  Mrs.  Nubbles 
meant  that  he  should  be  left  alone  with  her  husband  just 
as  little  as  possible.  She  looked  out '  sharply  that  the 
thorn  of  labor  was  never  pulled  out  from  his  side.  Her 
shrill  voice  was  all  the  time  ringing  in  his  ears,  as  she 
called  continually  after  him — "  Gabriel !  here  !"  Even  a 
stolen  moment  was  not  allowed  him,  in  which  he  could 
draw  a  long  breath  or  fold  his  hands  from  the  task  he  had 
last  been  upon.  It  was  "Gabriel!  Gabriel!"  all  the  time. 

"When  evening  came  he  either  pared  apples,  or  sewed 
or  Avound  carpet-rags,  or  stood,  girt  about  with  a  long 
piece  of  coarse  brown  toweling,  pumping  away  with  all 
his  might  at  an  old-fashioned  churn ;  while  Kit  sat  at  the 
fireside  slowly  vegetating  in  the  warmth  and  the  blaze, 
and  contemplating  him  with  looks  of  the  utmost  profund 
ity,  and  satisfaction. 

He  was  engaged  in  churning  one  afternoon,  as  usual, 
when  Kit  entered  the  kitchen  and  found  him  entirely 
alone.  This  he  liked ;  for  it  would  give  him  an  oppor 
tunity  he  had  long  coveted  to  visit  the  orphan  with  his 
severest  tyranny.  So  he  began  : 

"  Who  be  you,  any  how  ?"  he  asked  ;  and  immediately 


48  KIT     NUBBLES. 

slid  his  chunks  of  hands  into  his  side-pockets,  and  regaled 
himself  with  a  good  hearty  stare. 

Gabriel  was  not  at  first  inclined  to  answer  him,  but 
pushed  and  pressed  away  as  hard  as  he  could  at  the  old 
churn. 

"  I  say,"  repeated  Kit,  his  eyes  glowing  a  little,  "  who 
be  you,  boy  ?  You  're  somebody,  I  s'pose  !" 

"  My  name  is  Gabriel  Vane,"  was  the  mild  reply :  "  I 
thought  you  knew  that." 

"  Humph !  But  s'pose  I  do  ?  What  then  ?  I  '11  have 
you  to  tell  it  to  me  over  agin,  if  I  like,  I  guess !  Don't 
go  to  givin'  me  none  o'  your  sass,  now ;  for — for — I — I" 
(he  was  swelling  with  passion)  "  I  don't  take  sass  from  no 
boy  !  'specially  them  that  comes  from  poor-houses !  You 
need  n't  feel  too  big  in  this  house,  I  can  tell  you !" 

The  face  of  Gabriel  quickly  flushed,  for  his  blood  was 
heated ;  and  he  pushed  down  his  churn-handle  with  much 
more  than  his  wonted  vigor.  He  ventured,  however,  no 
reply. 

"  I  s'pose  you  know  what  father  brought  you  here  for, 
don't  ye  ?"  he  asked,  after  a  pause. 

Down  went  the  old  churn-pole  again  harder  than  ever ; 
but  no  answer  yet. 

"  And  I  s'pose  you  understand  what  you  was  afore  you 
come  ? — nothing  but  a  town  pauper — a  beggar  !  You  'd 
orter  be  very  thankful  to  my  father  for  what  he  's  done,  I 
can  tell  you!" 

Gabriel  had  something  ready  on  his  tongue's  end  to  say 
to  this,  but  by  a  great  effort  he  managed  to  keep  it  back. 

"  Tell  me  who  you  be,  then,"  again  repeated  the  young 
villain.  "  Why  don't  you  tell  ?" 

"  You  know,"  said  Gabriel. 

"  No,  I  don't :  your  name  I  know ;  but  that  ain't  noth- 
in'.  Who 's  your  mother  ?" 


KIT     NUBBLES.  49 

"  She 's  dead,"  was  the  sad  answer. 

"  Dead,  is  she  ?  So  she  is.  I  've  heard  father  say  you 
had  n't  got  no  mother.  What  did  she  die  of?" 

"  I  can't  tell  you,"  said  Gabriel. 

"  Guess  she  was  n't  any  very  great  shakes,"  pursued  he  ; 
"  if  she  was,  she  'd  ha'  kept  herself  out  o'  the  poor-house ; 
and  such  a  one  as  the  Epping  poor-house,  too  !" 

Gabriel  took  fire.  "  I  liked  it  better  than  I  do  here," 
said  he,  with  a  flushed  face. 

"  Oh,  you  did,  hey !  Wai,  then,  why  don't  ye  go 
right  back  there  agin  ?  What  do  you  stay  here  for,  you 
young  sass-box  ?" 

"  I  would  if  I  could,  I  'm  sure." 

"Come,  now;  you  needn't  go  to  sayin'  any  thing 
ag'inst  livin'  here  with  my  mother,  nor  nothin'  about  it ; 
for  I  sha'  n't  stan'it,  so !  Do  ye  hear  f  Then  jest  look 
out  for  yourself,  sir !" 

"  You  talked  against  my  mother,"  put  in  Gabriel,  in 
justification. 

"  I  know  I  did  ;  but  that 's  a  different  thing,  I  'd  have 
you  to  understand,  now.  My  mother — every  body  all 
over  the  world  knows  what  she  is  ;  but  who  was  yours  f 
Who  was  there  that  knew  her  ?  What  was  she  but  a 
pauper? — and  what's  a  pauper,  I  want  to  know?  So 
jest  be  careful  of  yourself,  you  young  Vane,  there  !" 

"  I  sha'n't  stand  and  hear  you  abuse  my  mother,"  said 
Gabriel,  with  a  great  deal  of  spirit. 

"  You  won't,  hey  ?  What  're  ye  goin'  to  do  about  it, 
now  ?  Come,  sir,"  and  he  moved  up  nearer  to  him,  and 
began  to  flourish  his  fist  quite  valiantly  in  his  face,  "  come 
now,  sir !  what  're  ye  goin'  to  do  about  it  ?" 

Gabriel  let  go  the  churn,  and  looked  as  straight  as  he 
could  into  the  young  rascal's  face.  His  eyes  burned  like 
coals  of  fire.  The  blood  crimsoned  his  cheeks  for  a  mo- 


50  KIT     NUBBLES. 

inent,  and  then  loft  them  altogether.  He  stood  pale  as  a 
lifeless  person. 

"Jest  churn  away  there !"  ordered  Kit,  the  petty  tyrant. 

The  boy  made  no  movement  in  the  way  of  obeying 
him,  but  continued  looking  in  his  face. 

"Do  you  hear?  Churn  away,  or  I'll — I'll — "  and 
there  his  rage  choked  his  utterance. 

"Take  that,  then!"  said  he,  as  he  rubbed  the  dirty 
palm  of  his  fat  hand  roughly  down  Gabriel's  face. 

The  latter  instantly  sprang  upon  the  overgrown  young 
monster  with  all  the  power  his  passion  gave  him,  and 
grappled  him  fairly  by  his  great  thick  throat.  Upon  this, 
Kit — who  really  was  very  much  more  than  a  match  for 
the  other — convulsively  threw  out  both  hands,  and  grab 
bed  just  as  many  handfuls  of  the  smaller  one's  hair.  This 
maneuvre  brought  tears  to  the  eyes  of  Gabriel  at  once. 
Instead,  however,  of  letting  go,  he  only  proceeded  to 
twist  and  screw  at  the  enemy's  throat  the  more  earnestly, 
till  he  forced  the  fat  creature  to  cry  out — quite  sluggishly, 
to  be  sure — 

"  Oh !     O— o— oh  !     Ye— ye— ch— ch— chok' !» 

Exactly  at  this  crisis,  the  door  opened,  and  who  should 
enter  but  the  mistress  of  the  mansion,  and  the  mother  of 
the  valiant  Kit.  Her  arms  were  filled  with  bundles  of 
wool  from  the  shed,  where  she  had  been  engaged  in  sort 
ing  it  over ;  but  she  threw  them  with  all  precipitancy  upon 
the  floor,  and  sprang  forward  to  the  rescue.  "  What 's 
this ;  what  does  this  all  mean  ?"  she  said. 

Each,  very  naturally,  at  once  let  go  of  the  other. 

Gabriel  did  not  speak  ;  but  stood  beside  his  churn  in 
silence,  the  tears  standing  in  big  drops  in  his  eyes.  Kit, 
however,  as  soon  as  he  could  catch  his  breath  again,  set 
about  his  explanation,  while  his  mother  continued  to  stand 
with  her  hand  uplifted  against  his  opponent. 


KIT     NUBBLES.  51 

f 

"  He  abused  you,  mother,  an'  I — I  pitched  into  him ! 
That  'a  all,"  said  Kit. 

"  You  did,  hey,  you  young  vagabond,  you  ?  Abuse 
me,  did  ye,  you  pauper?  I'll  teach  ye!" — and  she  tilled 
Tier  hand,  in  turn,  with  the  same  locks  that  had  just  been 
relinquished  by  her  hopeful  son.  "  Abused  me,  hey  ? — 
and  here  I  am,  takin'  the  best  of  care  of  ye  all  the  time,  and 
tryin'  all  I  can  do  to  keep  ye  from  freezin'  and  starvin' ! 
We  '11  see,  sir,  about  that — we  '11  see  !"  and  she  jerked 
the  helpless  boy  very  vigorously  this  way  and  that  by  the 
hair  of  his  head,  till  he  almost  found  it  impossible  to  keep 
his  feet  at  all. 

"  He  said  hard  things  of  my  mother,"  Gabriel  made  an 
attempt  to  utter. 

"  You  did,  did  you  ?"  she  Avent  on.  "  You  abused  me, 
did  you  ?  I  '11  show  how  to  git  into  my  house,  and  abuse 
me  to  my  own  and  only  child,  and  then  fall  afoul  of  him 
with  your  pauper  hands  besides !  Yes,  and  you  was  goin' 
to  choke  him,  too,  was  ye  ? — to  cJioke  him,  you  little 
wretch !  I  '11  show  ye  how  to  choke  people,  now !  I  '11 
teach  ye,  sir  !" 

So  to  make  her  threat  good,  she  seized  him  by  the 
throat  too,  and  held  on  upon  it  until  his  face  became 
almost  black. 

"That's  the  way!  that's  the  way,  mother !"  shouted 
Kit,  from  the  chair  to  which  by  the  laws  of  self-preserv 
ation  he  had  prudently  retreated ;  "  give  it  to  him, 
mother !  Let  him  see  how  good  it  feels  to  be  tickled  in 
such  a  spot  as  that !  That 's  good,  mother !  Only  see  the 
little  pauper  choke  !  Only  see  how  black  he  's  a  gittin'  in 
the  face !" 

And  with  another,  and  a  still  tighter  twist  of  her  vice- 
like  gripe,  she  forced  him  to  cry  out  with  all  the  remain 
ing  strength  he  possessed  ;  after  which,  boxing  his  head 


52  KIT     NUBBLES. 

soundly  on  both  sides,  she  pushed  him  down  upon  the 
cellar  stairs,  and  shut  and  secured  the  door  after  him, 
leaving  him  in  utter  darkness. 

Gabriel  sat  down  pale  and  faint,  and  wept  long  alone. 
He  recalled  the  sorrows  of  his  short  life,  and  vainly  tried 
to  see  a  way  into  the  future.  The  rupture  with  the  Nub 
bles  family  was  now  complete  and  irreconcilable. 


CHAPTER  V. 

TEN-ACKE     ELYSIUM. 

How  steadily  it  did  rain — drip,  drip,  drip  from  the 
eaves — and  swash,  swash,  swash  along  through  the  gut 
ters  !  It  was  in  the  latter  part  of  the  month  of  April,  when 
multitudinous  "  showers"  may  naturally  be  expected — if 
banking  snow-storms  do  not  unnaturally  take  their  place — 
preparatory  to  the  bringing  forth  of  what  are  conceded, 
by  an  agreeable  fiction,  to  be  "  May  flowers." 

It  was  a  gray,  dull,  blankety  rain,  more  after  the  nature 
of  a  running  mist  than  a  falling  shower,  and  for  all  of 
twenty  hours  it  had  been  visiting  the  face  of  the  earth 
with  its  ungenial  offices.  The  naked  tree-boughs  were 
dripping.  The  shrubbery  along  the  country  roadside 
looked  half-drowned,  and  altogether  sadly  bedraggled. 
Old  stone  walls  took  upon  them  a  duller  and  a  grayer 
suit  than  ever,  and  seemed  to  be  sinking  finally  out  of 
sight  in  the  thick  mist  and  fog-banks.  Sullen  and  grisly- 
looking  vapors,  like  brown  and  dun  smokes,  brooded  over 
and  within  warm  nooks,  and  the  wet  fields  began  at  last 
to  smoke  from  the  glowing  warmth. 

There  stood  back  on  a  slight  elevation  from  the  distant 
plain  below,  a  neat  and  tasteful  rural  structure,  built  evi 
dently  years  ago,  but  recently  repaired  and  refurbished  for 
its  present  occupants,  which  offered  the  casual  observer  as 
pleasant  a  picture — prospectively,  at  least — of  home  hap- 


54  TEN- A  ORE    ELYSIUM. 

pincss  as  the  country  any  where  around  could  produce. 
Inviting  as  the  spot  must  look  when  surrounded  with  the 
verdure  of  June,  it  was  really  so,  even  at  the  present 
time,  with  the  rain,  drip — drip — dripping  from  the  roof 
upon  the  piazza,  and  the  shrubbery  bent  down  with  the 
weight  of  the  gathering  drops. 

It  was  a  warm  rain,  and  was  doing  a  vast  deal  of  good. 
The  roots  and  bulbs  that  had  just  been  set  out  about  the 
yard  would  find  their  account  in  it  before  it  was  over. 
The  buds  on  the  fruit-trees  began  to  swell  and  break  un 
der  its  influences,  promising  them  a  new  and  showy  livery 
in  as  short  a  time — if  the  weather  should  continue  warm 
— as  trees  ought  reasonably  to  expect.  Here  and  there 
the  grass  had  turned  itself  into  a  light  and  delicate  green, 
showing  oif  very  favorably  by  contrast  with  the  deadened 
color  of  every  thing  else.  The  lilacs,  by  the  little  gate 
post,  had  pushed  their  leaves  along  further  than  any  other 
bushes  or  shrubs,  and  threatened  to  expand  in  a  few  days, 
what  now  showed  as  long  and  slim  mouse-ears,  into  broad 
and  open  surfaces  that  would  make  their  shadows  on  the 
ground. 

The  place  consisted  of  some  ten  or  a  dozen  acres — "be 
the  same  more  or  less,"  as  the  legal  instruments  say — and 
was  tastefully  remodeled  by  its  present  owner,  who  had 
but  just  removed  thither  from  the  city.  The  name  of  the 
proprietor  was  Mr.  Rivers ;  who  had  been  for  a  long  time 
a  successful  and  wealthy  merchant  in  town,  but  upon 
whom  misfortunes  had  latterly  fallen  so  fast  and  interrupt 
edly,  that  he  was  compelled  to  give  way  before  them. 
Out  of  them  all  he  was  finally  extricated  by  a  majority 
of  his  creditors,  who,  holding  unabated  confidence  still  in 
his  personal  integrity,  and  feeling  unwilling  that  a  man, 
who  by  bare  misfortune  had  been  suddenly  reduced  from, 
affluence  to  want,  should  be  stripped  of  even  the  comforts 


T.EN-ACRE    ELYSIUM.  55 

of  life,  made  liberal  provision  for  his  future  by  setting 
aside,  each  one  of  them,  a  certain  portion  of  their  fully 
satisfied  claims.  This  was  highly  honorable ;  and  might 
be  practiced,  with  profit,  in  still  other  cases  than  that  of 
Mr.  Rivers. 

Accordingly  he  found  himself  with  property  enough 
left  to  purchase  a  snug  residence  in  the  country,  where  he 
might  have  just  land  enough  to  engross  the  greater  por 
tion  of  his  attention,  and  live  in  a  style  of  as  perfect  in 
dependence  and  freedom  from  care  as  mortal  could  wish. 
So  to  the  country  he  went,  far — far  away  from  the  city, 
where  the  lengthening  radius  of  its  great  influence  would 
not  readily  reach.  The  spot  to  which  the  reader  is  here 
with  introduced  was  the  spot  in  which  he  invested  his 
money,  and  to  which,  after  suitable  repairs  and  improve 
ments,  he  had  just  brought  his  family. 

There  were  only  himself  and  his  wife,  his  two  daugh 
ters  and  a  maid-servant,  to  comprise  that  family,  the 
farmer  not  having  yet  been  employed  for  the  season  ;  and 
quite  a  pretty  family,  too,  they  promised  to  make  in 
their  novel  situation.  Mrs.  Rivers  was  the  second  wife 
of  her  husband,  and  but  a  step-mother  to  the  girls ;  who 
seemed  to  entertain  a  high  respect  for  her,  that  came  as 
near  as  any  thing  could  to  downright  affection. 

The  names  of  the  two  sisters  were  Mary  and  Martha. 
Mary  was  the  elder,  and  rather  the  more  impulsive  and 
flighty  of  the  two  ;  Martha  was  but  two  years  her  junior, 
a  girl  of  great  vivacity  united  to  a  deep  and  thoughtful 
nature,  and  with  a  figure  perfectly  expressive  of  the  beau 
tiful  spirit  that  governed  its  every  motion.  When  Mr. 
Rivers  first  proposed  to  his  daughters  his  plan  of  retiring 
to  the  pleasant  old  country  solitudes,  laying  open  to 
them,  as  he  almost  always  did  in  important  cases,  the 
motives  that  incited  him  to  make  the  change  contem- 


' 


56  'lEN-ACRE    ELYSIUM. 

plated,  their  feelings  were  quite  in  strong  contrast  with 
each  other  in  relation  to  the  subject ;  and  they  began 
directly  to  debate  the  matter  pro  and  con,  according  to 
the  best  of  their  ability.  Mary  did  not  like  the  idea  of 
coming  into  the  country  at  all ;  she  disliked  the  country  ; 
yes,  she  even  said,  in  an  impulse,  she  hated  it.  It  was  so 
very  dull.  The  people  were  so  very  rude  and  ignorant. 
And  then  to  think  of  living  right  in  the  dirt,  with  labor 
ing  men  sweating  in  the  sun  all  around  one,  and  pigs  and 
cattle  squealing  and  bellowing  at  the  barn,  and  nothing  to 
look  at  or  think  of  but  the  same  eternal  old  round  of 
things  without  interest,  and  with  their  novelty  and  fresh 
ness  entirely  gone  !  How  could  she  hear  of  this  sudden 
change  in  her  father's  plans  without  giving  free  rein  to 
her  expressions  of  disquiet  and  disgust.  How  could  she 
think  of  leaving  the  sights  and  sounds  that  were  to  be 
heard  within  city  limits  for  the  uncertain  enjoyment  of 
persons  and  objects  with  which  she  might  be  supposed  to 
have  no  sympathy  at  all.  She  knew  very  well  the  crip 
pled  pecuniaiy  condition  of  her  father,  yet  she  seemed  to 
have  no  thought  at  all  for  the  step  which  that  condition 
compelled  him  to  take. 

Martha,  the  younger  sister,  was  as  different  as  she 
could  possibly  be.  It  being  understood  that  neither  of 
the  girls  was  destitute  of  personal  attractions,  the  fact 
might  as  well  be  added  that  Martha  was  a  person  of  a 
peculiar  and  fascinating  style  of  beauty.  She  was  just 
tall  enough,  and  just  full  enough.  Her  step  Avas  light  and 
graceful,  not  at  all  too  proud,  and  not  at  all  too  careless. 
But  it  was  in  her  sweet  face,  always  alive  with  the  ex 
pressions  of  her  glowing  thoughts,  and  ever  wreathed 
with  the  pleasantest  of  smiles,  that  her  charm  chiefly  lay. 
With  blue  eyes,  light  complexion,  regular  features,  and 
that  vivacious  expression  continually  flitting  over  her 


TEN-ACRE    ELYSIUM.  57 

face,  she  was  quite  irresistible.  She  won  her  way  to  your 
confidence  at  once.  Indeed,  she  seemed  to  wish  to  make 
you  her  intimate  friend  and  the  sharer  of  all  her  thoughts 
from  the  moment  you  fell  in  with  her. 

It  was  not  at  all  like  this  with  Mary.  She  was  a  cynic 
so  far  as  two  or  three  things  were  concerned  ;  and  going 
into  the  country  was  one  of  those  things.  On  that  point 
it  would  foe  vain  to  try  to  change  her  mode  of  feeling. 
Her  mind  was  made  up,  and  there  was  an  end  of  it. 
And  so  the  sisterly  debate  went  on  from  the  morning  on 
which  their  father  first  communicated  his  design  until 
the  very  day — and  a  very  long  time  after,  too — when  the 
reader  finds  them  duly  introduced  to  his  or  her  acquaint 
ance. 

The  ride  into  the  village,  on  the  outskirts  of  which 
they  dwelt,  from  the  railroad  station,  was  full  of  delight 
and  wonder  to  Martha ;  but  Mary  was  certain  it  was  just 
the  deadest,  dullest,  excursion,  long  or  short,  that  she 
had  ever  made;  and  what  there  could  be  on_the  road  for 
any  one  to  enjoy  was  totally  past  her  comprehension. 
"  Perhaps,"  said  she  to  her  sister,  "  it 's  the  cows  in  yon 
der  lot !" 

"  Yes,  I  admire  sleek,  handsome  cows,  Mary,"  answered 
her  sister.  "  I  hope  father  will  have  as  pretty  and  as 
gentle  creatures  as  there  are  to  be  had  any  where.  I 
should  love  to  learn  to  milk  myself." 

Mary  was  of  course  astonished — shocked.  She  had 
given  her  sister  credit  for  a  more  refined  taste  then  to  be 
looking  after  horned  cattle,  and  told  her  so  ;  but  all  she 
got  for  her  pains  was  a  roguish  laugh,  and  the  sight  of  a 
fresh  face  full  of  happiness. 

The  name  of  the  village  was  Draggledew  Plain.  It  was 
a  natural  scoop  out  between  several  gentle  hills  that  sa 
luted  the  sun  at  his  earliest  coming  and  held  its  linger- 

3* 


58  TEN-ACBE    ELYSIUM. 

ing  light  upon  their  bosom  until  it  died  down  below  the 
horizon.  Within  this  natural  plain,  stretching  from  hill 
to  hill,  lay  the  quiet  little  village,  a  pleasant  spot,  in  which 
the  stranger  would  expect  of  course  to  find  contentment 
in  plenty.  There  Avas  a  church,  a  tavern-house,  a  post- 
office,  and  a  school-house  in  the  village  ;  and  the  variety 
of  character  within  its  limits  was  as  truly  wonderful  as 
within  the  circuit  of  a  town  incomparably  its  superior 
both  in  wealth  and  population.  It  was  at  a  distance  of 
from  three  quarters  of  a  mile  to  a  mile  from  the  village 
green  that  Mr.  Rivers  had  selected  his  place  of  retire 
ment,  where  he  meant  to  cultivate,  for  the  future,  with  all 
his  might  the  few  acres  of  his  rural  domain. 

The  girls  were  standing  on  the  piazza  at  the  end  of  the 
house,  at  the  close  of  the  afternoon,  the  rain  and  mist 
still  drizzling  down  every  where  over  the  face  of  the  earth. 
They  had  been  contemplating  the  untoward  weather  from 
that  position  for  some  time  before  either  spoke.  At  length 
Mary  began,  evidently  renewing  a  conversation  they 
were  engaged  upon  but  a  short  time  before. 

"  You  like  the  country,  you  say,"  she  taunted  pleas 
antly.  "  Now  won't  you  please  tell  me  what  particular 
part  of  it  pleases  you  just  at  this  time?  I  really  am 
a  little  curious  to  know.  Unless  you  consent  to  in 
form  me,  I  fear  I  may  sometimes  make  entirely  wrong  es 
timates,  when  they  would  perhaps  subject  me  to  mortifi 
cation." 

"Well,"  responded  Martha,  her  happy  countenance 
beaming  with  roguish  pleasure  strangely  enough  mixed 
up  with  sisterly  aifection,  "just  at  this  time  I  must  say  I 
am  most  pleased  with  the  rain  !  Perhaps  though,  it 's  be 
cause  there  's  more  of  it  just  now  than  of  any  thing  else. 
But  I  like  a  rain,  especially  a  good  warm  rain  in  the 
spring.  Don't  you  ?" 


TEN-AC  BE    ELYSIUM.  59 

"  Don't  I !  You  know  what  I  think  of  it ;  and  you 
must  know  how  very  disagreeable  above  all  other  things 
it  is  to  me,  away  out  here  from  every  body  I  ever  knew 
in  my  life.  What  a  question !" 

"Well,  now,  upon  my  word,  Mary,  and  all  seriously 
too,"  said  Martha,  "  I  must  confess  that  I  enjoy  this  drip 
ping  storm  as  much  as  any  one  can  enjoy  such  things.  I 
feel  such  a  sense  of  easiness  stealing  over  me,  as  if  the 
rain  without  did  but^shut  us  up  so  much  the  more  de 
lightfully  within.  And  I  like  to  look  off  over  the  half- 
drowned  landscape,  and  see  the  bleak  winter  melting  out 
of  sight  into  the  earth,  and  the  gi  eat  Jianges  in  nature 
getting  ready  to  burst  forth.  It  awakens  deep  thoughts 
in  me ;  I  can  not  tell  what  they  exactly  are,  but  I  ex 
perience  quite  enough  to  know  that  my  nature  is  deeply 
stirred. 

"If  I  only  knew  what  your  thoughts  were  /"  said  Mary. 

"If  I  only  knew  how  to  goto  work  to  set  your  feelings 
right  on  this  subject!"  added  her  younger  sister,  "it 
would  add  by  just  so  much  to  my  own  happiness  here. 
Why,  Mary,  only  look  about  you.  This  is  not  the  pleas- 
antest  part  of  the  season  yet,  I  know ;  but  that  does  n't 
prevent  one's  finding  something  quite  agreeable  even 
now.  Is  n't  this  nature  ?  and  does  nature  ever  weary 
one  ?  Why,  you  don't  put  yourself  in  a  true  position 
from  which  to  look  at  these  things.  You  are  all  the  time 
comparing  what  you  see  here  with  what  you  have  left  in 
town.  I  know  you  are." 

"  That  would  be  nothing  strange,  as  I  see.  But  how 
can  I  help  it  ?  What  would  you  have  me  do  ? — throw 
away  all  the  refinement  of  my  feelings  at  a  single  fling  of 
my  hand,  and  become  as  much  a  boor  as  the  rest  of  crea 
tion  all  around  me  here.  Is  that  a  condition  upon  which 
alone  I  can  be  permitted  to  enjoy  what  you  call  rustic  life  ?" 


60  TEN-ACKE    ELYSIUM. 

"  No,  not  at  all,  sister ;  but  this  is  the  way  I  try  to 
view  it :  I  reflect  that  as  one's  enjoyment  in  the  city  de 
pends  altogether  on  her  associations  there,  so  one's  hap 
piness  in  the  country  depends  on  her  corresponding  as 
sociations  here.  In  other  words,  dear  Mary,  in  the  two 
places  we  find  ourselves  surrounded  by  two  sets  of  cir 
cumstances  ;  and  all  we  have  to  do  at  first  is  to  try  and 
conform  to  them  in  some  manner.  You  must  n't  expect 
to  find  here  what  is  to  be  found  every  day  in  town ;  nor 
must  you  think  that  the  town  offers*  cheap  and  innocent 
enjoyments  that  are  only  to  be  found  here.  The  two 
views  of  the  subject  are  just  as  separate  and  distinct  as 
the  two  places  are  themselves  But  for  my  part  I  am 
going  to  try  and  like  the  country :  and  I  don't  think  I 
shall  need  to  try  very  hard,  either." 

"  Oh,  dear  !"  said  Mary,  after  a  little  pause ;  "  I  only 
wish  father  had  bought  a  house  somewhere  else;  any 
where  but  in  this  dismal  place !  I  never  shall  live  out 
here  half  my  days ;  I  know  I  shan't !" 

"You  mustn't  forget,"  returned  Martha,  "that  father 
was  compelled  to  consult  his  resources  quite  as  much  as 
he  did  his  taste  in  coming  down  here.  I  know,  and  so 
does  he,  that  it  is  a  great  sacrifice  to  him,  and  to  all  of 
us,  in  many  ways ;  still  I  think  that  with  a  spontaneous 
love  for  nature  one  could  easily  make  himself  as  happy 
here  as  any  where  else  in  the  world.  Just  see  the  mist 
over  on  those  hills  !  See  what  grotesque  shapes  it  takes ! 
We  never  saw  such  things  in  town.  Once  in  a  while  we 
might  see  sunset  on  a  church  spire,  or  get  a  walk  by 
fording  through  the  mud  in  the  streets ;  but  never  did 
we  see,  and  never  shall  we  see,  such  beautiful  sunsets  as 
we  shall  have  here,  nor  wade  through  such  mud  as  we 
used  to  have  there.  It's  clean  mud  in  the  country, 
Mary !" 


TEN-ACKE    ELYSIUM.  61 

Her  sister's  face  relaxed  a  little.  "  Clean  mud !"  she 
ejaculated. 

"  Yes,  clean.  Whatever  you  get  in  the  fresh  country, 
you  may  depend  upon  it,  will  be  wholesome.  As  soon  as 
it  clears  up  again,  you  shall  see  how  bracing  and  clear  the 
air  is.  It 's  no  more  like  what  we  used  to  breathe  than 
— than — ,  Oh,  just  hear  that  bird  in  the  birch  coppice 
yonder !  Who  would  think  a  bird  could  sing  in  such  a 
storm  as  this  ?  Poor  little  thing,  I  hope  it  won't  get  its 
death  of  cold  by  being  out  in  this  bad  weather  !" 

"  How  very  romantic  all  this  is !"  said  Mary.  "  If  I 
could  only  get  in  such  a  way  now,  going  into  ecstasies 
over  every  little  bird,  bug,  and  spider  that  flies,  crawls, 
and  spins,  I  don't  doubt  that  I  might  make  living  here 
very  agreeable.  But  unfortunately  I  don't  happen  to 
possess  that  faculty.  So  I  must  make  up  my  mind  to  eke 
out  the  days  the  best  way  I  can.  They  '11  be  long  enough, 
I  promise  you." 

"  No  they  won't,  sister,"  rejoined  Martha,  turning  her 
self  swiftly  round  twice  on  the  floor  of  the  piazza.  "  I  'm 
going  all  about  here  myself,  as  soon  as  spring  sets  in,  and 
lather  says  that  will  be  very  soon,  from  present  indica 
tions  ;  just  as  soon  as  this  storm  goes  away." 

"  I  should  be  glad  to  know  when  that  will  be,"  said 
Mary. 

"  Oh,  well,  Mary,  sometime  or  other,  of  course;  don't 
be  too  impatient.  But  as  soon  as  the  ground  gets  dry,  I 
mean  to  go  out  on  the  many  excursions  I  have  planned 
for  the  spring  and  summer ;  and  I  want  you  to  go  with 
me,  too,  for  I  know  how  much  you  will  enjoy  it.  I  'm 
going  to  hunt  birds'  nests,  and  count  the  eggs,  and  watch 
the  growth  of  the  little  ones  till  they  leave  their  homes  in 
the  grass  and  leaves.  And  the  brooks,  too  ;  you  know  I 
was  always  perfectly  charmed  with  the  sight  of  a  sweet 


62  TEN-ACKE    ELYSIUM. 

little  brook,  Mary.  Well,  I  'm  going  to  follow  the  brooks 
up  and  down,  and  become  a  very  intimate  friend  with 
them  all ;  and  I  shall  want  you  to  go  with  me  always  too. 
And  what  fine  landscapes  we  can  sketch  with  our  pencils, 
and  not  be  at  the  least  trouble  to  find  originals  .either ! 
And  the  rocks  and  trees,  and  the  meadows  and  lanes, 
and  orchards,  and  woods — where  can  one  find  a  greater 
variety  of  resources  for  enjoyment,  dear  sistei-,  than  right 
in  a  spot  like  this  ?  I  shall  live  two  lives  now  where  I 
lived  but  one  before.  And  we  must  be  so  much  the 
happier,  too,  all  the  time  !" 

Mary  stood  with  folded  arms,  attentive  to  what  her 
more  contented  sister  was  saying,  and  watching  with  a 
gloomy  and  unsatisfied  countenance  the  drizzle  and  drip 
ping  of  the  spring  rain.  She  said  nothing  more,  however, 
perhaps  not  altogether  sure  that  Martha  had  not  really 
got  the  right  of  it.  And  at  that  moment  Mr.  Rivers  him 
self  came  out  where  they  were,  and  stood  beside  them. 

"  What  a  rain  !"  said  he. 

Sure  enough — what  a  rain  !  A  real,  old  fashioned,  four- 
days,  country  rain !  A  soaking,  sopping,  drowning  rain ! 
A  rain  that  all  the  time  rained  at  least  just  so  much,  and 
a  good  part  of  the  time  a  great  deal  more  !  A  rain  that 
suggested  an  odd  fancy  of  a  saturated  sponge  being  held 
over  your  head,  and  of  a  million  minute  cells  being 
squeezed — but  never  squeezed  dry — of  the  contents  of 
their  little  buckets  of  water  ! 

House  and  hedge,  garden  and  field,  sky  and  earth — 
every  thing  wore  about  the  same  cast  of  expression  ;  dull, 
leaden,  and  dead.  A  hypochondriac  would  have  wel 
comed  it  as  warmly  as  a  starved  man  welcomes  the  hour 
of  dinner.  It  was  such  a  "  spell  of  weather"  as  would 
please  the  whole  army  of  blue-devils  exactly.  They 
would  dance  and  skip,  and  squirm  in  the  brain  now,  as 


TEN-ACKE    ELYSIUM.  63 

they  never  would  know  how  at  any  other  time.  The  best 
balanced  minds  could  not,  without  an  effort,  repel  the 
influence ;  and  even  the  most  romantic  natures  would  be 
sure  to  get  a  little  sapped  and  bedraggled  in  their  golden 
plumage,  by  the  somber  fancies  that  brooded  every  where 
over  them  like  a  thick  mist. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

OUT     OF     THE     BUSHES. 

0 

THE  hired  man  had  saddled  the  horse  and  brought  him 
into  the  yard,  where  he  stood  proudly  pawing  up  the  dirt 
with  his  hoof.  He  was  a  new  horse  that  Mr.  Rivers  had 
bought  but  a  short  time  before  of  one  of  the  farmers 
somewhere  in  the  neigborhood  ;  and  being  young,  spirit 
ed,  and  handsome,  he  was  just  such  a  pretty  creature  as 
Martha  would  be  most  likely  to  pet.  So  as  the  man  led 
him  round  to  the  back  door,  and  the  two  sisters  stood 
talking  about  him,  Martha  declared  she  would  give  him  a 
name  :  "  and  Button  it  shall  be,"  she  added,  holding  out 
her  hand  to  receive  a  caress  she  fancied  he  would  be 
ready  to  give  her  for  the  compliment. 

"  Now  be  very  careful  that  your  Button  does  n't  run 
away  with  you,  Mat,"  said  the  elder  sister,  assisting  her 
into  the  saddle  with  her  hand  and  shoulder. 

"  I  wish  you  had  consented  to  ride  first,"  returned 
Martha.  "  I  'm  sure,  I  had  much  rather  you  would." 

"  Ah,  that  indeed,  now  !  When  you  are  thinking  that 
somebody's  neck  is  likely  to  be  broken,  you  feel  a  little 
more  willing  that  it  should  be  mine  than  your  own !  No, 
I  thank  you :  I  must  positively  decline  your  kind  offer. 
Pray,  let  me  insist  on  your  making  the  first  experiment 
yourself." 

Martha  turned  upon  her  a  face  of  innocent  surprise,  «nd 
exclaimed,  "  Why,  sister !  You  know  I  meant  no 


OUT    OF    THE    BUSHES.  65 

thing !  How  cruel !"  The  man  could  not  refrain  from 
laughing  aloud  at  the  manner  in  which  the  elder  sister 
turned  back  the  invitation  of  the  other  upon  herself. 

"  Well,  well,  Mat,"  broke  out  Mary,  endeavoring  to 
smooth  down  the  wrinkles  caused  by  her  speech,  "it  will 
be  soon  enough  for  me  to  ride  out,  after  your  return. 
I  'm  in  no  particular  worry  to  view  the  country  to-day, 
and  will  obligingly  believe  every  word  you  may  feel  dis 
posed  to  report  to  me  of  the  state  of  things.  So  cut  up 
your  little  Button,  and  away  with  you !" 

The  horse  laid  his  ears  back  close  to  his  head,  not  wick 
edly  so  much  as  playfully,  and  commenced'  switching  his 
long  tail  hither  and  thither,  while  Martha  self-possessedly 
kept  her  seat  and  began  to  stroke  his  glossy  neck  with 
her  hand.  On  his  back,  she  looked  like  a  picture  of 
health  and  beauty.  The  blood  freshly  mantled  her  cheeks, 
from  merely  the  inspiriting  thoughts  that  danger  raised 
in  her  brain;  and  her  eyes  glowed  and  sparkled  with 
pleasure,  in  expectation  of  nothing  but  the  beautiful  even 
ing  ride  she  was  going  to  have. 

It  was  just  at  the  close  of  a  charming  spring  day, 
the  sun  still  playing  about  the  summits  of  the  hills,  gild 
ing  the  Avood-spires  that  shot  up  in  serred  rows  from 
their  soil,  and  throwing  back  over  the  lowland  and  the 
plain  the  reflection  of  its  dying  brilliancy.  The  evening 
air  was  bland  and  soft;  just  strong  enough,  thought  the 
fair  horseman,  to  be  a  little  invigorating,  and  not  go 
much  heated  as  to  become  oppressive  or  enervating.  It 
would  heighten  still  more  the  color  of  the  rider's  cheeks, 
and  excite  to  a  yet  pleasanter  pitch  the  tone  of  her  sym 
pathizing  spirits.  She  could  hardly  have  chosen  a  finer 
time  for  her  short  excursion  on  horseback,  and  gave 
out  that  she  was  going  to  learn  how  to  go  about  for 
the  future  unattended  ;  "  for,"  added  she,  gayly,  "  unless 


66  OUT    OF    THE    BUSHES. 

I  do  learn  it,  I  am  afraid  I  shall  never  be  able  to  go  at 
all!" 

"  Attendants  are  so  very  scarce,"  added  her  sister,  "  in 
this  most  charming  retirement !" 

"  Ah,  but  you  will  come  over  to  my  opinion  before  a 
great  while,  Mary.  You  can't  hold  out  very  long.  All 
you  want  is  a  horseback  ride  or  two." 

"  Well,  come,"  was  the  reply,  "  let  us  see  you  take 
your  horseback  ride  !  I  'm  very  patiently  waiting  to  see 
you  get  off." 

"  Anxious  to  get  rid  of  me,  possibly  !  Very  well ;  here 
we  go,  then.  Come,  my  little  Button !  Come  up,  But 
ton  !"  And  gracefully,  but  firmly,  reigning  him  in,  she 
started  out  of  the  yard  on  a  slow  and  very  agreeable 
canter. 

The  girl  was  a  good  horseman,  and  entertained  not 
the  first  fear  for  her  ability  to  keep  her  seat,  in  any  emerg 
ency.  The  horse  was  a  new  one,  to  be  sure,  and  she 
was  quite  unused  to  him ;  but  she  had  unbounded  confi 
dence  in  herself,  and  that  is  the  first  and  last  requisite  of 
good  horsemanship.  She  carried  a  light  riding  whip  in 
her  hand,  with  the  silky  end  of  which  she  patted  ever  so 
gently  the  little  horse's  mane,  while  she  talked  continu 
ally  to  him  almost  as  she  would  to  a  child.  As  her  steed 
carried  her  away,  she  turned  her  face  around  just  as  she 
was  going  into  the  arched  avenue  of  a  wooded  lane,  and 
beheld  her  sister  still  standing  in  the  yard,  looking  after 
her  with  an  appearance  of  deep  interest.  Martha  hastily 
waved  her  hand,  spoke  encouragingly  to  Button,  and  was 
in  a  moment  lost  in  the  winding  aisle  of  the  forest  by-road. 

As  she  got  on,  and  as  she  felt  her  confidence  in  the 
horse  and  herself  every  moment  more  and  more  estab 
lished,  her  interest  in  the  natural  objects  around  her  en 
grossed  nearly  all  her  attention,  and  she  fell  into  her 


OUT    OP    THE    BUSHES.  67 

wonted  habit  of  admiration  and  reverie  immediately. 
Her  eyes  ran  quickly  up  and  down  the  moss-spotted  stems 
of  the  trees,  and  lodged  their  arrowy  glances  in  the  thick 
clusters  of  the  green  leaves ;  or  swept  away  with  a  single, 
far-reaching  gaze  over  meadows  and  hillsides ;  scouring 
the  whole  country  for  objects  of  beauty. 

She  suffered  her  horse  to  walk  after  a  while ;  and  she 
thought  he  held  down  his  head  upon  his  breast,  and  arch 
ed  his  neck  with  such  a  proud  prettiness,  that  he  was  per 
fectly  satisfied  with  the  character  both  of  his  companion 
and  the  excursion.  The  cool  air  in  the  glades  fell  refresh 
ingly  on  her  forehead  and  cheeks,  and  her  spirits  passed 
insensibly  from  a  state  of  exhilaration  to  one  of  compar 
ative  repose. 

The  pictures  such  as  her  imagination  had  hitherto 
painted  for  her  Avere  now  around  her  on  every  side ;  and 
she  felt  that  the  mere  paintings  had  never  yet,  in  truth, 
equaled  the  realities.  It  seemed  to  do  her  eyes  good  to 
get  unbounded  views  of  such  beautiful  landscapes.  The 
little  horse  walked  slowly  on ;  the  bridle  rein  hung  loosely 
about  his  neck  ;  the  air  was  enticing ;  and  the  girl  was  in 
a  dream — and  a  dream,  too,  on  horseback ! 

She  could  not  help  thinking — as,  indeed,  all  think  who 
know  any  thing  about  it — that  views  from  the  saddle  are 
brighter  views,  and  fresher  views,  and  broader,  and  far 
more  beautiful  than  from  almost  any  other  situation  ;  and 
the  heightened  spirits  never  fail  to  flush  them  with  the 
warmth  of  their  own  coloring,  and  to  impart  to  them  the 
glowing  life  with  which  they  are  themselves  overflowingly 
full.  Her  enjoyment  was  as  perfect  as  it  was  possible  for 
any  one's  to  be ;  indeed,  she  questioned  if  ever  in  her  life 
she  had  been  happier  than  she  was  at  this  moment.  If 
Mary  would  but  look  at  things  as  she  did ! — if  Mary 
would  only  widen  her  sympatkies  a  little — it  would  alj 


68  OUT    OF    THE    BUSHES. 

be  as  well  for  herself!  And  how  very  much  more  com 
plete  then  would  be  her  own  happiness ! 

Down  into  a  beautiful  dell  she  slowly  trotted,  her  face 
turned  first  to  one  side  of  the  road  and  then  to  the  other. 
It  was  a  spot — she  thought  to  herself — quiet  enough  for 
the  fairies  to  hold  their  midnight  revels  in.  The  broad 
bands  of  green  turf  striped  the  road,  and  Button  trotted 
evenly  between  them.  She  had  gathered  up  the  reins  a 
little,  though  they  still  hung  rather  loosely  over  his  neck, 
as  if  she  would  say  to  him  in  all  candor  and  friendship — 
"  Now  you  must  n't  play  me  false,  Button.  I  put  full 
confidence  in  you,  you  understand  ;  be  sure  and  do  your 
very  best  for  me  this  time,  and  you  will  find  in  me  the 
truest  of  friends  hereafter  !  You  hear  me,  Button,  don't 
you  ?" 

As  if  he  really  did  hear  her,  he  laid  his  small  ears  back 
close  upon  his  head,  switched  the  air  briskly  with  his  tail, 
and  fell  forthwith  from  a  trot  into  quite  a  lively  canter. 

"Not  too  fast,  Button  !  not  too  fast,  sir  !  I  want  time 
to  look  about  me  a  little,  you  know  !"  said  she,  reining 
him  in  somewhat.  "  Button,  I  like  the  s,cenery  here 
abouts,  and  I  'm  going  to  try  to  make  you  like  it,  too  !" 

Out  from  the  forest  path  she  emerged  upon  the  broad 
and  open  plain,  where  the  fading  sunlight  lay  with  a  dy 
ing  glory,  gilding  leaves,  and  grass,  and  rocks.  The  little 
brooks  went  singing  along  by  the  roadside,  gurgling  and 
gushing  with  a  perfect  joy.  Squirrels  began  to  chirp  and 
chatter  upon  the  gray  stone  walls,  now  racing  along  on 
the  tops,  and  now  hiding  themselves  for  a  moment  over 
the  other  side,  whisking  their  bushy  tails  in  the  fullness 
of  delight.  Birds  were  putting  up  their  grateful  evening 
chorals,  their  feathered  throats  swelling  and  rufiling  with 
song. 

If  ever  beauty  was  to  be  found  anywhere,  thought 


OUT    OF    THE    BUSHES.  69 

Martha,  surely  here  it  was  all  around  her.  If  nature 
anywhere  was  perfectly  charming — throwing  out  her 
arras  for  one,  as  it  were,  smiling  broadly  and  benignantly, 
blessing  her  children  and  asking  to  be  blessed  in  return — 
surely  it  was  now. 

The  girl  watched  as  closely  the  changing  hues  of  the 
clouds  as  she  did  the  manifold  pictures  the  landscape  of 
fered  her ;  and  her  soul  seemed  to  have  put  on  ethereal 
wings,  that  bore  her  far,  far  beyond  the  atmosphere  of 
sordid  realities,  and  bathed  itself  in  the  resplendent  colors 
that  floated  over  the  dome  of  the  heavens.  What  poetry 
her  nature  possessed  was  excited  now  to  its  extreme  limit 
of  passionateness.  What  dreams  had  ever  dawned  on  her 
soul's  sight  before,  at  this  time  seemed  to  clothe  them 
selves  with  the  attributes  of  a  living  and  glowing  reality. 
Oh,  those  evening  clouds !  those  evening  clouds !  Grand, 
massy,  and  glorious !  piled  up  as  they  were  in  battlements 
of  gorgeous  colors,  with  streamers  sailing  and  swimming 
away  from  them  all — rolling  slowly  hither  and  thither, 
like  great  billows,  in  the  sea  of  cloudless  ether  afar — 
showing  mysterious  cliffs  and  suggesting  unfathomed 
deeps  beyond,  where  only  brightness  and  unbroken  blue 
stretched  away  forever  and  forever — how  they  wrought 
in  the  soul  of  the  enthusiastic  girl,  kindling  her  emotions 
to  a  warmth  that  was  little  less  than  a  living  ecstasy ! 

She  spoke  to  herself,  soliloquizing  in  such  .syllables  as 
chanced  to  come  to  her  lips,  and  all  the  time  of  the  beau 
ties  that  so'  charmed  her.  Forgetful  of  her  situation,  and 
thinking  only  of  the  scenes  that  enraptured  her  vision, 
the  had  thoughtlessly  suffered  the  bridle  to  lie  loosely 
over  Button's  neck  again,  leaving  him  to  pursue  the 
course  that  best  pleased  himself.  It  was  a  moderate  gait, 
and  such  an  one  as  assisted  her  much  in  her  tranquil  en 
joyment.  But  the  sudden  report  of  a  gun  from  very 


70  OUT    OF    THE    BUSHES. 

near  the  roadside,  in  a  small  patch  of  chestnut  wood,  ac 
companied,  too,  with  a  vivid  flash  of  fire,  so  started  the 
little  steed  from  his  pleasant  equanimity  that  he  sprang 
with  a  wild  and  terrific  bound  from  the  road,  almost 
throwing  his  rider  from  the  saddle.  Giving  a  loud  snort, 
that  betokened  his  intense  affright,  he  switched  his  tail 
very  swiftly  two  or  three  times,  and  set  out  the  next 
instant  on  a  dead  and  desperate  run. 

"  Whoa,  Button !  steady,  Button !"  spake  she,  in  as 
firm  a  voice  as  she  could  command,  while  she  grasped 
the  reins  and  drew  them  upon  his  mouth  with  all  her 
might. 

But  every  second  that  he  ran  he  seemed  to  grow  more 
and  more  unmanageable,  as  if  his  fright  increased  upon 
him  continually.  He  tore  away  like  the  very  wind.  All 
that  she  could  do,  all  she  could  say,  had  no  more  influ 
ence  over  him  than  the  whistling  of  the  air  in  his  ears. 
Faster  and  faster  he  flew  each  moment,  till  the  walls,  and 
rocks,  and  trees  all  seemed  running  in  one  smooth  line 
together.  His  hoofs  rattled  upon  the  turf  and  the  gravel 
as  if  he  scarcely  allowed  them  time  to  strike  the  ground 
beneath  him  at  all.  His  long  and  abundant  mane  streamed 
away  from  his  neck,  and  his  nostrils  dilated  frightfully. 
Like  a  wild  horse  of  the  prairies,  he  felt  for  once  the  full 
strength  and  freedom  of  his  limbs. 

As  good  a  horseman  as  Martha  knew  herself  to  be,  she 
nevertheless  experienced  the  overwhelming  and  paralyz 
ing  sensations  of  fear.  They  crept  coldly  over  her,  in 
spite  of  her  utmost  exertions  to  keep  them  down.  She 
tried  to  be  calm  and  self-possessed ;  but  there  was  some 
thing  that  shook  her  nerves,  till  she  began  to  think  she 
had  no  power  more  over  them. 

Her  grasp  on  the  bridle  was  firm  and  tight,  but  it 
seemed  as  if  her  hand  had  not  strength  left  to  check  his 


OUT    OF    THE    BUSHES.  71 

impetuous  career.  She  could  not  even  guide  him.  He 
had  his  head,  and  threw  out  his  fore  feet  with  a  swift 
stretch  that  told  the  observer  at  a  glance  that  the  horse 
was  a  desperate  runaway. 

One  moment  the  cheeks  of  the  girl  would  be  flushed 
with  color,  red  and  burning ;  and  the  next,  they  were  as 
pale  as  whiteness  itself.  As  she  swept  swiftly  through 
the  air,  the  wind  shrieking  even  frightfully  in  her  ears, 
cold  chills  crept  over  her,  the  dampness  stood  in  the 
palms  of  her  hands,  and  the  strength  slowly  left  her  limbs. 
She  knew  too  well  how  fearful  a  ride  she  was  taking,  and 
could  clearly  calculate  the  very  few  chances  there  were  of 
her  final  escape  in  safety.  Her  heart  almost  ceased  to 
beat ;  her  pulses  Avere  still ;  and  the  blood  quite  curdled' 
within  her  for  terror.  Still  on  dashed  the  frightened 
animal,  heedless  -of  bridle  and  bit,  as  if  he  were  bent  on 
rushing  forward  to  his  own  destruction — on,  on,  on ! 

Her  sensations  now  began  to  be  indescribable.  There 
was  a  swimming  in  her  eyes  and  giddiness  in  her  brain 
that,  as  she  was  borne  along  past  walls  and  trees  so 
swiftly,  seemed  almost  to  overwhelm  her.  To  cry  out 
would  be  worse  than  useless :  for  it  could  hardly  be  pos 
sible  that  any  assistance  would  be  near,  and  to  frighten 
the  animal  still  more  would  be  the  height  of  iosane  folly. 
So  she  merely  held  on  firmly,  though  as  for  speaking  a 
word  to  the  horse  then  it  was  entirely  out  of  her  power. 
It  was  as  if  her  blood  was  all  on  fire.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  her  nerves  were  every  one  wrought  up  to  its  highest 
tension,  and  that  they  tingled  like  very  stings  to  the  ends 
of  her  fingers.  Her  eyes  rested  on  nothing,  but  all  ob 
jects  ran  into  one  confused  and  continuous  blur.  She 
felt  as  if  she  were  flying — swimming — sailing  through 
the  air,  and  her  respiration  every  moment  became  more 
difficult.  Oh,  if  she  could  but  touch  her  foot  to  the 


72  OUT    OF    TIIE    BUSHES. 

ground!  If  she  could  just  break  the  monotony  of  this 
swift  and  continuous  line  of  objects  !  She  thought  rapidly 
of  her  sister — of  her  father — of  all  her  friends.  She  tried 
to  think  of  herself — of  where  she  was,  and  of  what  might 
be  the  ending  of  this  fearful  ride ;  but  her  mind  was  going 
round  and  round  in  the  vortex  of  a  whirlpool  of  fears ; 
her  thoughts  were  too  swift  even  to  be  thoughts,  or  to 
take  any  distinct  shape  and  direction.  And  the  horse 
still  bore  her,  with  clatter  of  hoofs  and  recklessness  of 
motion — on,  on,  on  ! 

She  finally  reached  a  spot  where  the  country  road 
forked.  If  she  could  get  him  to  the  left  he  would  be 
obliged  to  climb  a  long  and  precipitous  hill ;  that  much 
she  could  sufficiently  collect  her  thoughts  to  understand. 
And  she  pulled  with  all  her  failing  strength  of  hand  upon 
the  rein.  But  she  might  as  well  have  pulled  at  a  rope 
around  an  oak,  so  little  heeded  he  the  power  that  ought 
to  have  directed  him.  He  tore  along  by  the  other  road, 
and  now  Martha  knew  nothing  of  what  was  next  to  come. 
Her  heart  quite  sunk  within  her. 

Hardly  had  she  gone  on  ten  rods  when  the  figure  of 
something — she  could  not  tell  what — sprang  forward 
from  a  clump  of  bushes  near  the  roadside,  and  in  a  mo 
ment  seemed  to  her  to  be  hanging  and  dangling  from  the 
neck  of  her  horse.  For  the  first  time  since  the  beginning 
of  her  terrific  race  she  uttered  a  low  cry.  The  person  who 
had  managed  with  such  success  to  catch  at  her  horse's 
bridle  now  shouted  to  him  with  all  the  power  of  his  lungs, 
dragging  and  pulling  his  head  perseveringly  downward 
to  the  earth.  The  horse  shook,  became  irregular  in  his 
motions,  trembled  convulsively,  and  tried  to  rear  on  his 
hind  feet.  But  the  grasp  of  the  stranger's  hand  upon  the 
bit  was  like  the  hold  of  a  vice.  It  could  not  be  shaken 
off  at  all.  It  finally  succeeded  in  breaking  down  the  im- 


OTTTOFTHEBUSHES.  73 

petuosity  of  the  runaway  and  bringing  him  to  a  perfect 
stand-still.  Martha  almost  fell  into  his  arms,  while  with 
out  proffering  a  syllable,  he  offered  to  help  her  from  her 
dizzy  seat  in  the  saddle.  She  leaned  heavily  on  his 
shoulder  as  he  assisted  her,  and  immediately  sank  down 
upon  a  rock  that  stood  by  the  side  of  the  road.  So  sud 
den  a  release  from  her  fears  took  all  her  remaining 
strength  away.  The  reaction  from  excessive  fear  to  the 
calmness  of  perfect  safety  was  too  overwhelming. 

Securing  the  horse  to  a  tree  at  hand  the  stranger 
hastened  to  lend  his  assistance  to  the  fainting  girl ;  and, 
lifting  her  from  her  seat,  he  conducted  her  to  a  little  run 
of  water  that  fortunately  was  but  a  few  paces  off.  There 
he  bathed  her  temples  with  the  cooling  fluid,  dipping  it 
up  in  the  palm  of  his  hand,  and  supporting  her  still  with 
his  arm.  It  was  with  a  feeling  of  profound  joy,  therefore, 
that  he  heard  her  exclaim  at  length  in  a  low  voice — "  I 
am  better  now!  Oh,  what  an  escape !" 

He  thought  that  upon  so  fair  and  expressive  a  face  his 
eyes  had  not  for  a  long,  long  time  feasted  themselves. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

MR.    HOLLIDAY. 

As  soon  as  Martha  declared  herself  sufficiently  re 
covered  of  her  strength  to  return,  she  rose  and  thanked 
the  stranger  for  his  kindness  in  words  few  but  full  of 
meaning,  and  looked  at  her  horse  as  if  she  yet  labored  in 
some  great  perplexity.  Understanding,  at  a  glance  al 
most,  what  the  cause  of  her  trouble  was,  her  companion 
asked  her  if  she  could  venture  to  ride  back  again.  She 
was  much  too  weak  to  walk,  that  she  felt  in  reality  ;  but 
it  would  be  a  thousand  times  easier  to  walk  even  twice 
the  distance  than  to  think  of  riding  the  excited  runaway 
back  again.  Accordingly  she  proceeded  sloxvly  along  the 
roadside,  while  her  brave  and  gallant  rescuer  led  the  horse 
beside  her,  alternately  talking  to  her  of  the  frightful  risk 
she  had  run,  and  trying  to  soothe  the  unquiet  of  the  animal. 

Now  and  then  she  sat  down  upon  a  rock  or  a  tree- 
stump  to  refresh  herself  again,  and  gather  additional 
strength  to  go  on ;  when  he  stood  by  her  and  said  all  he 
could  to  revive  her  spirits  until  she  got  up  and  went  on 
again. 

The  stranger  was  quite  a  young  looking  man,  not  too 
tall,  rather  slender,  and  with  a  countenance  that,  though 
by  no  means  pale,  Avas  nevertheless  marked  with  the 
lineaments  of  habitual  thoughtfulness.  The  vitality  and 
the  repose  were  just  closely  enough  allied  in  his  appearance 


MK.     HOLLIDAY.  75 

to  bespeak  a  perfect  and  well-balanced  character.  He 
had  a  large  and  very  dark  gray  eye,  full  of  expression, 
and  glancing  quick  rays  of  intelligence  around  him.  His 
forehead  was  broad  and  ample,  and  covered  with  a  per 
spiration  that  had  broken  out  profusely  upon  his  exertions 
to  check  the  horse's  headlong  career ;  and  wiping  it 
away  continually  with  his  handkerchief  while  he  took  his 
hat  from  his  head,  he  seemed,  in  the  eyes  of  the  grateful 
girl,  to  be  veritably  handsome  ;  a  term  not  often  applied 
with  either  taste  or  propriety  to  those  of  the  male  sex, 
but  in  this  individual  case  most  certainly  deserved  and 
in  nowise  misemployed. 

As  they  walked  on,  their  conversation  branched  off 
from  accidents  to  pleasanter  topics.  Martha's  self-pos 
session  visibly  increased,  and  her  spirits  went  up  at  once ; 
and  thereupon  she  fell  into  a  rapid  and  sketchy  narration 
of  her  inner  experience  on  first  removing  from  the  heart 
of  town-life  to  the  seclusion  of  the  country.  She  gave  up, 
with  an  innocency  of  manner  that  to  the  young  man  was 
indescribably  captivating,  all  the  feelings  that  had  marked 
the  epoch  of  her  removal  hither,  and  naively  expressed 
her  present  desire  to  make  herself  and  all  around  her 
besides  perfectly  happy.  She  spoke  charmingly,  too,  of 
the  scenery,  alluding  to  each  individual  item  that  went 
to  make  up  its  beautiful  aggregate,  and  asked  him  with  a 
countenance  flushed  with  nothing  but  earnestness,  if  he 
were  not  as  great  an  admirer  as  herself. 

When  it  became  apparent  to  both  of  them  how  much 
in  accord  their  deeper  and  finer  sympathies  were,  and  that 
neither  need  hunger  for  companionship  in  the  neighbor 
hood  of  the  other,  a  fine  electrical  thrill  seemed  to  shoot 
simultaneously  through  their  hearts,  and  they  secretly 
felt  that  a  real  and  lasting  acquaintance  had  begun.  So 
mysterious  and  so  subtle  oftentimes  are  the  influences 


76  ME.     HOLLIDAY. 

that  lead  spirit  to  spirit,  and  link  soul  with  soul  in  bonds 
that  promise  nothing  less  than  bliss. 

The  stranger  gentleman  announced  his  name  to  be  Mr. 
HoUiday.  He  lived  in  a  small  house  perhaps  a  half  mile 
from  the  humble  little  seat  of  Mr.  Rivers,  at  the  end  of  a 
short  lane  that  conducted  you  back  from  the  road  a  little 
way,  in  a  nest  that  was  hedged  about  with  lilacs  and 
climbing  roses. 

Mr.  Holliday  was  an  exceedingly  quiet  man,  for  so 
young  an  one,  following  along  his  own  course  in  the 
world  without  questioning  or  interruption.  He  had  been 
a  resident  near  Draggledew  Plain  but  about  three  years, 
during  which  time  it  would  be  difficult  for  any  one  of  all 
the  people  roundabout  to  say  that  they  were  really  ac 
quainted  with  him,  or  knew  aught  of  the  real  elements 
and  shades  of  his  nature.  They  would  tell  you,  to  be 
sure,  that  such  a  man  as  Mr.  HoUiday  lived  a  little  out  of 
the  village,  in  a  house  by  himself,  with  only  a  house 
keeper  ;  and  they  would  be  pretty  sure  to  tell  you  be 
side,  that  he  was  a  young  man  of  very  retired  habits, 
much  given  to  writing  and  reading,  but  still  more  to  fish 
ing  ;  and  still  further,  that  they  perfectly  knew  all  there 
was  Avorth  knowing,  or  to  be  known  by  any  one,  about 
him,  and  that  he  was  what  some  people  called  an  author. 

Yos,  an  author  !  A  young  writer,  who,  with  small 
means  but  an  iron  resolution,  and  with  a  love  for  nature 
and  the  beautiful  that  colored  and  shaped  all  the  other 
feelings  of  his  heart,  struggles  bravely  for  years  with  for. 
tune,  and  is  finally  admitted  to  share  the  sweet  and  satis 
factory  pleasure  of  her  broadest  smiles.  Such  there  are, 
and  such  labor  in  the  midst  of  those  who  know  them  not. 
They  live,  as  it  were,  in  a  world  of  their  own,  in  the  at 
mosphere  of  which  they  who  pretend  to  deride  them — 
those 'coarser  natures  that  can  laugh  only  because  they 


MB.     HOLLIDAY.  77 

can  not  understand — could  never  so  much  as  exist.  Sup 
porting  himself  and  his  small  establishment  by  means  of 
his  pen  alone,  of  course  he  was  but  one  of  the  humble 
ones  in  life,  at  least  for  the  present,  who  do  not  trust 
themselves  to  the  current  and  the  uproar,  but  half  hide 
in  quiet  nooks  and  are  content  with  the  little  fame  their 
unbroken  labors  may  happen  to  bring  them.  He  felt  that 
as  yet  his  career  was  hardly  begun.  What  he  had  hither 
to  produced  was  put  forth  without  the  open  authority  of 
his  own  name,  and  so  he  suffered  himself  still  to  remain 
in  obscurity,  though  not  a  whit  the  less  contented  on 
that  account. 

Mr.  Arthur  Holliday  was  a  man  of  some  twenty-five 
years,  or  in  that  neighborhood,  and  had  thus  far  helped 
himself  along  in  the  world.  His  talent,  whatever  in  popu 
lar  estimation  it  might  be,  was  ah1  native  to  him ;  the  edu 
cation  of  it  had  been  the  steady  work  of  his  own  industry 
and  resolution.  Setting  his  face  as  a  flint  sternly  against 
the  seductiveness  of  fleeting  and  unsatisfactory  pleasures, 
such  as  captivate  almost  at  first  view  the  unsteady  hearts 
of  young  men  of  promise  generally,  he  looked  to  one  single 
object  in  life,  toward  which  he  bent  his  steps  with  a  stead 
fastness  of  purpose  that  could  never  know  total,  even  if 
partial,  defeat. 

So  he  sat  in  his  quiet  and  humble  little  cot  in  the  lilacs 
and  rose-bushes,  and  day  after  day,  and  night  upon  night, 
studied  the  few  authors  that  were  his  favorites,  or  toiled 
in  the  continuous  and  exhausting  efforts  of  composition. 
Not  a  day  was  suffered  to  pass  but  it  brought  along  with  - 
it  new  accessions  either  to  his  stores  or  his  discipline. 
He  toiled  with  a  perseverance  that  would  be  satisfied 
with  nothing  short  of  success.  His  soul  itself  was  in  his 
purpose,  and  he  could  not  fail  to  reach  some  point  at 
last  that  must  satisfy  him.  He  was  at  his  table  often- 


78  MR.     HOLLIDAY. 

times,  in  summer  weather,  before  others  were  to  be  heard 
stirring  anywhere  around  him,  scratching  away  at  his 
manuscripts,  and  adding  sheet  to  sheet  for  the  rigid  re 
vision  of  a  future  day.  Sometimes  he  sat  over  his  books 
the  day  through,  buried  in  the  studies  and  the  reading 
that  helped  to  furnish  him  with  the  means  to  go  onward. 

Or  when  a  good  warm  wind  drew  up  into  the  little 
valley,  and  so  over  the  plain,  from  the  southern  gateway 
in  the  hills,  he  shouldered  his  rod,  furnished  his  pocket 
with  provisions  for  the  excursion,  and  went  hunting  the 
brooks  clear  to  their  fountains,  or  back  again  to  the  place 
where  he  started,  for  the  largest  trout  that  would  suffer 
themselves  to  be  insnared  by  him.  His  success  in  these 
charming  little  forays  into  the  sweetest  recesses  and  hid 
ing  places  of  nature  was  proverbial  throughout  the  neigh 
borhood  ;  as  a  fisherman,  or  rather,  as  an  angler,  he  bore 
a  reputation — though  in  all  likelihood  he  knew  it  not — 
second  to  none  the  country  round. 

Talking  of  this  thing  and  that,  and  trying  to  make  his 
fair  companion  forget  as  far  as  possible  the  frightful  scene 
through  which  she  had  just  gone,  he  walked  on  by  her 
side,  every  moment  growing  more  and  more  interested  in 
her,  and  more  and  more  confirmed  in  the  esteem  he  had 
at  the  first  moment  of  speaking  with  her  conceived.  Yet 
there  stole  now  and  then  a  dull  shadow  over  his  feelings, 
that  made  itself  plain  even  upon  his  countenance  also. 
Once  or  twice  he  arrested  himself  in  the  act  of  casting 
suspicious,  if  not  fearful  glances  upon  her,  as  if  he  were 
anxious  about  some  revelation  that  might  suddenly  be 
made.  There  was  a  mystery  in  his  manner,  when  it  was 
such,  that  none  could  have  possibly  fathomed ;  unless,  per 
haps,  it  had  been  either  Martha  or  some  other  of  her 
family  friends.  He  was  chiefly  fearful  lest  an  untoward 
revelation  might  occur.  It  seemed  to  be  this  as  much  as 


MK.     HOLLIDAT.  79 

any  thing ;  and  if  not  this,  then  there  is  no  telling  what 
it  was. 

Coming  along  to  where  the  lane  first  began  to  track 
into  the  wood,  they  met  Mary,  who  had  become  some 
what  alarmed  for  the  safety  of  her  sister,  and  walked  on 
to  see  if  she  could  meet  her  returning  home.  Her  face 
expressed  the  deepest  surprise,  on  seeing  her  on  foot,  and 
especially  on  seeing  a  stranger  walking  beside  her  and 
leading  her  horse.  Instinctively  she  put  up  both  hands. 

"Don't  be  too  much  alarmed,  sister,"  called  out 
Martha  to  her;  "it  wasn't  exactly  an  accident,  but  it 
came  very  near  being  one."  . 

"  Thrown  ?"  asked  Mary,  her  eyes  wide  open  with  sur 
prise. 

"  Ohr  no,  indeed  !  Only  a  runaway.  You  see  Button 
and  I  hav'n't  become  sufficiently  acquainted  with  one  an 
other  yet.  But  I  hope  this  state  of  things  won't  continue 
long." 

"Runaway!"  exclaimed  Mary.  "Did  he  run  with 
you  ?" 

"Yes;  and  hadn't  it  been  for  the  courageous  and  very 
timely  interference  of  this  gentleman  here,  you  would 
hardly  have  got  the  account  as  you  now  do  from  my  own 
lips." 

Her  sister  now  gained  her  side,  and,  making  her  lean 
on  her  arm  for  support,  begged  her  to  narrate  how  it  all 
happened,  and  how  she  was  rescued  safe  and  alive. 

"  It  was  only  by  stopping  the  horse,"  reph'ed  the  young 
man,  quite  modestly. 

"  That  indeed,  sir,"  said  Mary.  "  But  I  should  hardly 
imagine  it  to  be  such  a  very  easy  task  to  check  the  course 
of  a  furious  runaway." 

"  Nor  is  it,  either,"  added  Martha,  bestowing  a  look  of 
gratitude  on  her  deliverer.  "I  was  going  on,  I  knew 


80  MR.    HOLLIDAY. 

nothing  where.  Control  over  rity  horse  I  had  utterly 
lost.  He  heeded  my  pulling  on  his  bit  as  little  as  he  did 
the  words  I  tried  to  speak  to  him.  Such  a  mad  race  I 
never  rode  before,  and  I  am  confident  I  do  not  wish 
to  ride  again.  Just  at  the  moment  when  I  thought  I 
must  certainly  fall  from  my  horse,  and  when  the  strength 
seemed  to  have  failed  me  altogether,  I  saw  some  one 
spring  suddenly  from  the  roadside,  and  the  next  I  knew 
was  that  my  headlong  career  was  brought  to  a  stop !  My 
horse  plunged  and  reared  to  get  away,  but  the  grasp  that 
was  upon  him  would  not  permit  that.  And  to  this  gen 
tleman  alone,  dear  sister,  am  I  indebted  for  my  life  to 
day." 

Mary  gave  him  a  look  of  pure  gladness. 

"  I  am  sure,  sir,"  said  she,  "  we  do  not  know  how  to 
thank  you  enough.  You  have  touched,  beside  the  feeling 
of  gratefulness  within  us,  that  of  deep  and  real  joy.  Let 
me  thank  you  again  and  again,  sir,  for  your  courageous 
service.  And  now" — they  had  finally  reached  the  gate 
at  the  yard — "  let  us  insist  on  your  coming  in  with  us." 

He  excused  himself  at  once  in  a  few  words,  promising 
to  call  very  soon  again  and  learn  how  speedy  was  Martha's 
recovery  from  her  fright;  and  lifting  his  hat  to  them 
both  with  a  grace  that  was  inborn  to  him,  he  turned  and 
pursued  his  solitary  way  down  the  road  homeward. 

On  that  road  what  strange  fancies  entered  his  head, 
while  faces,  equally  strange  crept  slowly  into  his  heart ! 
The  face  of  that  beautiful  girl — so  full  of  innocence,  so 
fresh,  so  glowing,  so  animated  with  her  perfectly  frank 
and  free  expression — quite  captivated  his  feelings,  and 
broke  down  the  barriers  of  his  judgment  altogether.  On 
his  pages  would  that  sweet  face  live  again.  In  his 
thoughts  he  knew  it  would  dance  till  they  could  gather 
themselves  around  no  other  objects  than  that.  What 


ME.     IIOLLIDAY.  81 

might  come  of  it  all — what  might  be  the  result  to  himself, 
to  his  plans,  and  purposes,  and  pursuits — he  dared  not 
once  stop  to  think.  It  was  in  a  dream  almost  that  he 
wandered  now ;  all  brought  to  him.  so  suddenly  that  he 
could  have  foreseen  nothing  of  it  a  short  time  before. 

The  father  of  the  girls  was  greatly  surprised  when  he 
learned  of  the  escape  of  his  younger  child  from  a  cruel 
death,  and  declared  many  times  that  he  would  never  for 
get  the  one  who  had  rendered  him  so  signal  a  service,  at 
the  risk,  too,  of  his  own  life.  His  gratitude  overflowed, 
seeming  to  be  even  more  abundant  than  that  of  either  of 
his  daughters ;  albeit,  it  is  certainly  due  to  Martha,  at 
least,  to  say  that  her  feeling  was  far  too  deep  for  any 
thing  like  a  fair,  outward  expression. 

Mr.  Rivers  had  never  heard  of  Mr.  Holliday  before. 
Was  he  a  young  man  ?  And  what  was  his  employment  ? 
Was  he  poor,  like  the  rest  of  us  around  here  ?  Martha 
answered  his  questions  only  the  best  way  she  could.  She 
told  him  just  what  Mr.  Holliday  had  himself  communicated, 
and  there  was  obliged  to  stop.  Mr.  Rivers  promised 
forthwith  to  find  out  more  without  farther  delay ;  and  in- 
forjped  his  daughters  that  they  had  made  at  least  one 
acquaintance,  since  their  arrival  in  the  country,  that  de 
served  to  be  carefully  perpetuated  to  the  end  of  their 
days.  Their  father  was  at  times  an  enthusiastic  man , 
and  where  he  liked,  he  liked  as  few  other  men  could. 
And  sitting  that  evening  in  his  slippers,  the  little  country 
parlor  being  pleasantly  lighted,  he  made  his  children  once 
more  the  happy  children  they  had  been  long  before  pe 
cuniary  misfortunes — if  they  really  were  such — had  over 
taken  them. 

The  little  seat  where  lived  the  Rivers  family  was  not 
on  that  night  any  more  enviable  in  its  appearance  than 
the  snug  nest  where  was  dreaming  the  young  student  and 

4* 


82  ME.     HOLLIDAY. 

author.  With  his  head  on  his  hand,  and  his  elbow  leaned 
upon  the  table,  he  sat  in  the  pleasant  web  of  his  dream, 
blowing  fanciful  bubbles  of  every  kind  through  the  hours 
of  the  spring  evening. 

Had  not  his  exertion  in  checking  the  horse  been  too 
much  for  him  ? 


.      CHAPTER  VIII. 

A    MORNING    CALL. 

IN  good  season  the  next  morning  Arthur  Holliday  set 
out  for  the  house  of  the  one  he  had  rescued,  eager  to 
know  what  effect  her  fright  might  have  produced  on  her. 
He  thought,  as  he  followed  the  winding  and  narrow  road 
along,  that  the  day  had  an  unusual  promise,  and  that  the 
sun  shone  forth  with  a  new  brilliancy.  The  woods  and 
the  fields  wore  liveries  that  seemed  hitherto  unobserved 
by  him.  Life  was  every  where  present,  and  birds,  beasts, 
and  insects  were  awake  with  the  dawn  of  a  fresh  joy. 

When  he  came  in  sight  of  the  low  house  and  broad 
piazza  of  Mr.  Rivers  his  heart  half  misgave  him,  and  un 
consciously  the  old  fears  stole  over  him ;  but  making  a 
desperate  effort  to  control  them,  he  walked  with  a  quick 
and  firm  tread  across  the  yard,  and  pulled  at  the  bell. 
Martha  had  espied  him  coming  up,  and  therefore  went  to 
wait  upon  him  ;  possibly  to  let  him  see  at  the  first  glance 
that  she  had  quite  recovered  from  the  shock  given  her 
nerves  the  evening  before. 

"  Good-morning,"  he  saluted,  as  she  opened  the  door. 
"I  was  anxious  to  know  that  you  were  well  this  morning, 
and  have  done  myself  the  pleasure  of  calling  on  you  for 
that  purpose." 

Martha  blushed,  thanked  him,  and  told  him  that  she 
thought  no  more  of  the  accident  at  all  than  of  the  great 


84  A    MORNING    CALL. 

risk  run  by  the  one  who  so  courageously  rescued  her ; 
and  asked  him  into  the  parlor.  He  complied  with  her 
wish ;  and  immediately  he  found  himself  seated  in  a  long 
room,  or  rather  in  two  rooms  thrown  together  in  one, 
with  a  low  ceiling,  and  the  walls  hung  with  a  few  charm 
ing  pictures,  chiefly  engravings ;  while  opposite  him  was 
that  same  sweet  face  that  had  looked  out  in  aty  his  dreams 
of  the  night  before. 

They  chatted  a  few  minutes  together,  when  Martha 
excused  herself  to  call  her  sister,  and  her  father  and 
mother.  Mary  entered,  renewing  to  the  stranger  her 
thanks  of  the  previous  evening,  but  adding  little  more. 
Aside  from  this  particular  circumstance,  she  could  think 
of  associating  no  other  one  with  him  that  would  be  likely 
at  all  to  interest  her. 

When  Martha  introduced  her  parents  they  betrayed 
their  pleasure  at  making  the  young  man's  acquaintance  in 
every  way  possible.  Mr.  Rivers  apologized  for  not  hav 
ing  first  called  on  him,  and  expressed  to  him  over  and 
over  the  gratitude  that  moved  him.  The  single  act  that 
saved  to  him  his  daughter's  life,  he  considered  one  for 
which  he  could  never  make  adequate  return.  He  char 
acterized  it  as  an  act  of  the  truest  courage  and  heroism. 
And  in  all  that  he  said  his  wife  concurred  most  heartily. 

"  It  was  no  more  than  what  the  common  feelings  of  hu 
manity  would  prompt,"  he  modestly  explained.  Still 
that  view  of  it  made  the  hearts  of  the  family  none  the  less 
grateful. 

Mr.  Rivers  at  length  fell  to  conversing  with  his  visitor 
of  the  scenery  and  the  country  round  about,  asking  him 
his  opinion  or  his  fancy  on  matters  of  taste,  or  comparing 
his  experience  with  him  respecting  life  and  labor  in  that 
particular  locality. 

"  You  have  resided  here  some  time,  I  suppose,"  said 


A    MORNING    CALL.  85 

Mr.  Rivers.     "  At  least,  long  enough  to  know  what 's 
going  on  around  you." 

"  Three  years  and  upward,"  was  the  reply ;  "  yet  in 
all  that  time  I  confess,  sir,  that  my  personal  acquaintance 
here  has  amounted  to  but  little.  I  spend  a  great  many 
hours  in  the  day,  and  a  great  many  days  in  the  month, 
out  of  doors,  and  there  I  manage  to  get  a  peep  at  about 
all  the  out-door  life  there  is  to  be  seen.  Every  body 
seems  to  know  me  ;  so  of  course  I  am  supposed  to  know 
every  body.  As  for  the  rest,  I  can  only  say  that  I  li ve  a 
quiet  and  secluded  life  here,  and  that  my  good  old  house 
keeper  in  all  likelihood  knows  as  little  of  me  as  the  rest." 

"The  country  is  well  adapted  to  your  pursuits,  you 
find,'1  Mr.  Rivers  went  on,  his  interest  increasing  natur 
ally. 

"  No  spot  can  be  better  for  me  than  this  one  right  here. 
Its  many  influences  have  seemed  to  grow  into  my  mind. 
When  I  labor,  my  thoughts  all  get  their  shape,  their 
coloring,  or  their  vividness  and  warmth  from  the  asso- 
ciations  that  are  linked  in  with  my  residence  here.  These 
influences  are  silent  and  secret,  every  one  of  them ;  but 
they  are  no  less  powerful  on  that  account.  The  mind  is 
a  something  over  which  we  after  all  have  but  little  con 
trol.  It  possesses  us,  and  not  we  it.  That  idea  is  a  fal 
lacy  at  best  that  teaches  us  that  we  have  only  to  furnish 
food  for  our  intellectual  nature,  and  then  suffer  our 
thoughts  to  go  a-grazing  upon  it.  It  is  not  so  ;  and  it  is 
just  because  it  is  not  so  that  I  feel  my  thoughts  often 
times  led  whither  other  powers  may  wish  to  lead  them, 
and  colored  by  processes  that,  to  say  the  least,  seem  ut 
terly  unaccountable." 

"  I  should  much  admire  to  peruse  one  of  your  books, 
sir,"  said  Mr.  Rivers.  "If  you  will  have  the  kindness  to 
send  one  over  to  us,  we  warrant  you  full  justice  shall  be 


86  A.    MORNING    CALL. 

done  its  pages  ;  and  when  I  next  go  into  town,  I  will  ob 
tain  such  of  yours  as  you  may  have  published.  We  must 
manage  to  keep  up,  somehow,  with  what  is  being  done  in 
the  world,  even  if  we  do  live  so  far  back  here." 

The  young  man  smiled  only,  acknowledging  the  com 
pliment  by  a  low  and  graceful  bow. 

"  There  are  enough  objects  around  us  here,"  he  ob 
served,  "  to  interest  if  not  to  instruct  one,  if  one  has  but 
a  wish  to  be  interested  and  instructed.  People  are  more 
homely  to  be  sure ;  but  homeliness  of  manners  is  by  no 
means  to  be  confounded  with  rudeness ;  they  are  quite 
different  things.  Because  all  can  not  lodge  under 
crowded  city  roofs,  it  does  not  follow  that  those  who  go 
into  country  cottages  are  necessarily  the  inferior  ones. 
Or  if  but  a  few  out  of  the  entire  mass  rush  to  the  close 
alleys  of  the  town,  it  is  by  no  means  certain  that  the  vast 
remainder  would  go  if  they  had  but  the  opportunity.  In 
fact,  country  people  may  possess  all  the  amenities  and 
intelligence,  and  refinement  of  those  who  possess  the 
most.  Why  not,  pray  ?" 

"  That 's  true  !  that 's  true  !"  exclaimed  Martha,  in  one 
of  her  irresistible  impulses.  "Mary,  I  want  you  to  hear 
this !" 

"  Mr.  Holliday  is  not  projecting  a  lecture  particularly 
for  me,  I  trust  ?"  said  her  sister,  in  a  voice  much  too  lan 
guid  to  stand  up  under  the  charge  of  affectation. 

"  Why,  Mary,"  returned  her  sister,  "  how  you  talk !" 

"  Oh,  no,  indeed,  said  the  young  man  ;  "  I  had  no  such 
thoughts  as  that,  nor  in  truth/ do  I  see  how  the  subject  in 
hand  could  trouble  any  one,  if  treated  in  a  truthful  and 
candid  manner.  Excuse  me  if  I  have — " 

"  You  have  not,  sir,  you  have  not,"  interrupted  Mary. 

"  Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?"  asked  Martha,  looking  a 
little  confused,  and  gazing  straight  in  her  sister's  face. 


A    MOKNING    CALL.  87 

"  Fol-de-rol !  Fol-de-rol !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Rivers  him, 
self,  eager  to  engage  his  guest  in  conversation  again. 
"  As  you  were  saying,  Mr.  Holliday :  um  ! — um ! — a — " 

"  Yes,  sir,  as  I  was  saying — it  is  not  of  necessity  a  dis 
paragement  to  a  person  to  live  among  country  scenes,  or 
even  in  the  midst  of  country  people." 

"  No — no — no  ;  that  it  is  n't,"  broke  forth  Mr.  Rivers. 

"  I  speak  not  from  any  special  experience  of  my  own, 
that  can  exactly  be  laid  down  by  the  side  of  that  of 
others,"  he  continued ;  "  I  know  what  I  do  simply  from  a 
habit  I  have  of  analyzing  my  own  feelings  and  thoughts 
on  such  a  subject.  I  understand  that  the  human  heart 
is  susceptible  to  some  of  the  subtlest  influences,  and  that 
they  reach  it  not  less  from  objects  and  scenes  in  the  midst 
of  rustic  quietudes,  than  from  those  beheld  within  corpo 
ration  limits.  In  fact,  refining  influences  are  by  no  means 
local  or  exclusive.  They  are  to  be  found  every  where  ;  as 
much  in  a  place  like  this,  and  more  to  some  natures  here, 
as  in  a  city's  borders.  Towns  concentrate  what  lies  more 
widely  scattered  beyond  their  reach.  Yet  there  is  as 
much  downright  happiness  to  be  had  outside  of  them  as 
in  them,  for  me  I  confess  a  great  deal  more  ;  and  I  have 
tried  both." 

"  And  for  me,  too,"  added  Martha.  "  The  open,  sunny 
country's  the  place  for  rational  enjoyment." 

"  Then  I  fancy  you  must  have  enjoyed  yourself  very 
highly,"  said  her  sister,  "  while  taking  your  horseback 
airing  last  evening  ;  for  upon  my  word  you  had  the  whole 
open  country  before  you  to  go  whither  you  would  !"  and 
upon  this  she  laughed  as  if  she  were  making  a  real  good 
time  of  it. 

"  Not  to  go  whither  I  would,  exactly,"  pleasantly  re 
turned  Martha.  "If  I  had  had  that  liberty,  I  should  cer 
tainly  have  chosen  a  different  route  from  the  one  I  took — " 


88  A    MORNING    CALL. 

•» 

"And  so  not  fallen  in  accidentally  with  Mr.  Holliday  ? 
added  her  father. 

Mary  looked  at  her  sister,  and  had  half  a  mind  naught 
ily  to  say,  "  Mat,  what  are  you  blushing  so  for  ?" 

".It's  a  happy  accident,"  said  Mr.  Holliday,  meaning 
nothing  but  a  compliment  by  it,  "  that  brought  my  humble 
self  within  the  circle  of  your  acquaintance." 

"  A  country  acquaintance,  too  !"  added  Mrs.  Rivers, 
with  a  smile. 

After  further  conversation  in  this  way,  Mr.  Rivers 
asked  his  guest  if  he  would  not  like  to  go  over  his  humble 
grounds  with  him  ;  to  be  sure  there  was  little  else  there 
but  nature,  and  there  would  be  likely  to  be  little  else  for 
a  long  time  to  come ;  yet  he  would  be  glad  to  show  him 
how  he  meant  finally  to  content  himself  here.  So  they 
strolled  out  on  the  piazza,  and  through  the  gate,  and  over 
the  garden,  and  into  the  orchard,  and  so  on  down  the 
little  lane  that  divided  the  kitchen-garden  and  the  house 
from  the  farm. 

All  the  way,  Mr.  Rivers  told  of  his  own  plans  for  slowly 
improving  and  beautifying  his  rustic  place,  and  of  the 
hopes  and  happiness  that  he  cherished  so  ardently  there. 
In  few  words  he  sketched  the  outline  of  his  life  to  his 
young  auditor,  and  closed  by  narrating  that  he  was  left 
just  where  he  had  begun  the  world  thirty  years  before. 
"  Out  ofkall  I  ever  could  boast  of  possessing,  and  I  never 
did  boast  overmuch,  I  think,"  said  he,  "I  saved  just 
nothing." 

"  Nothing  !"  instinctively  exclaimed  Mr.  Holliday. 

"  Nothing  at  all.  You  wonder,  then,  how  I  have  the 
moderate  possessions  I  do ;  let  me  tell  you  that  I  hold 
them  simply  as  a  sort  of  certificate  of  character  from  my 
creditors.  They  have  generously  provided,  when  I  other 
wise  should  have  been  on  the  'world  ;  and  for  their  pro- 


AMOKNINGCALL.  89 

vision,  whatever  it  might  be,  I  am  by  all  considerations 
bound  to  be  grateful.  I  believe  in  gratitude,  Mr.  Holli- 
day — I  believe  in  gratitude,  sir ;  and  let  me  stop  to  thank 
you  over  again  for  your  noble  conduct  in  releasing  my 
dear  daughter  from  her  danger  yesterday." 

"  Oh,  sir—" 

"  I  know  you  don't  want  me  to  say  any  thing  about  it ; 
so  I  won't.  Yet  I  feel  no  less  grateful  for  it  all,  you  un 
derstand.  It 's  a  debt  I  can't  seem  to  discharge,  as  I  feel 
that  I  have  done  by  my  other  debts.  But  as  I  was  going 
to  tell  you,  Mr.  Holliday :  I  try  to  feel  as  happy  here  as  I 
ever  did  any  where  ;  and  I  really  believe  I  've  got  hold 
of  the  true  feeling." 

"  Indeed,  I  do  not  doubt  it,  sir.  Such  a  thing  is  not  so 
very  difficult  to  attain,  if  one  but  puts  himself  at  first  in 
the  right  position." 

"  That 's  it — that 's  it.  The  fact  is,  Mr.  Holliday,  since 
f  I  first  began  to  put  down  my  resolution  seriously  on  this 
subject,  as  a  man  should  do,  I  've  become  quite  a  philos 
opher.  I  find  myself  busy  with  subjects  that  never 
troubled  me  before.  You  will  say  that  the  country  is  a 
good  place  for  philosophizing  ?" 

"  Grand.  The  very  best.  It 's  quite  my  own  experi 
ence,  sir." 

"  Well,  then,  as  I  get  deeper  into  my  system,  I  shall 
without  doubt  understand  every  thing  the  better.  My 
philosophy  is,  just  at  this  time,  contentment.  That  single 
word,  I  believe,  will  comprise  it  all.  There's  the  real 
happiness  to  be  got  in  that ;  and  what  more  are  we 
all  after?  What  more  are  we  after,  I  should  like  to 
know  ?" 

"  Nothing  more,"  ventured  to  answer  the  young  man. 

"  I  know  that  it 's  not  the  life  my  family  have  been  ac 
customed  to  lead ;  but  does  that  go  to  show  that  it 's  not 


90  A    MORNING    CALL. 

a  life  in  which  they  may  find  the  wholest  and  most  whole 
some  enjoyment  ?  I  think  not.  I  took  you  round  this 
way,  just  to  show  you  the  little  place  I  call  my  farm.  It 's 
about  large  enough  to  make  a  man  determined  to  be  con 
tented — perfectly  contented  ;  and  that 's  just  enough. 
Here  I  shall  try  and  reap  my  harvests,  and  enjoy  myself 
with  the  passing  year.  Perplexities  of  business  will  never 
interrupt  my  quietude,  nor  threaten  the  happiness  of  my 
little  family.  I  hope  to  find  my  neighbors  as  well  disposed 
as  I  think  I  am  myself,  and,  above  all,  Mr.  Holliday,  I 
shall  expect  as  much  of  your  company  as  you  can  possibly 
give  us.  We  will  try  and  make  you  enjoy  yourself  in  our 
circle,  if  you  're  not  hard  to  be  suited." 

The  young  man  assured  him  that  that  was  his  last  fail 
ing,  and  responded  to  his  invitation  with  much  cordiality. 

When  they  entered  the  front  yard  again  Mr.  Holliday 
was  struck  with  the  simple  beauty  that  characterized  the 
place  ;  perhaps  it  seemed  far  more  charming  to  him,  now 
that  he  was  in  possession  of  the  golden  key  that  unlocked 
the  secret  of  the  charm.  He  felt  that  here  was  a  family 
with  whom  he  might  have  many  a  pure  sympathy  in  com 
mon  ;  where  he  might  come  and  not  find  all  he  said  and 
did  misinterpreted ;  around  whose  circle,  although  even 
unconsciously  to  themselves,  he  might  fling  associations 
of  the  most  endearing  and  delightful  character. 

The  young  ladies,  as  well  as  their  mother,  presented 
urgent  requests  to  the  author  to  call  on  them  often,  hop 
ing  he  might  find  it  agreeable  for  him  to  do  so.  He  prom 
ised  all  that  his  tongue  allowed  him,  and  took  his  leave  at 
that.  Time  might  ripen  their  acquaintance.  New  ideas 
might  sprout  in  the  garden  of  theif  sociality.  Matters 
might  change  a  good  deal.  Hearts  might  finally  open. 
He  knew  not  but  he  might  be  the  missionary  who  was  to 
change  the  direction  of  Mary's  thoughts  regarding  rural 


A    MORNING    CALL.  91 

• 

life,  and  bring  her  out  bright  at  last  on  the  side  of  her  fair 
sister,  Martha. 

And  Martha's  face  again  came  directly  before  his  eyea 
while  he  walked  slowly  over  the  shaded  country  road. 
She  seemed  to  smile — to  speak.  He  smiled  in  return. 
And  then  the  shadow  of  that  fear — that  strange  and  inde 
scribable  fear — dragged  its  slow  length  across  his  heart, 
and  the  sweet  illusion — face  and  features,  smile  and  syl 
lables — was  utterly  gone.  It  was  like  a  cloud  coming  be 
tween  the  eai'th  and  the  sun.  It  would  soon  be  gone ; 
yet  it  had  been  there.  And  even  the  recollection  of  that 
troubled  him. 

As  soon  as  he  reached  his  little  cot  he  entered  his 
study,  anti.  there  buried  himself  in  the  thoughts  that 
crowded  upon  him.  His  housekeeper  had  called  him 
thrice  already,  and  still  he  seemed  to  know  nothing  what 
she  meant  by  her  assiduity,  nor  what  it  was  all  for. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

KIT    AND    HIS    CROW. 

GABRIEL  stole  out  into  the  yard  one  pleasant  morning, 
and  began  to  amuse  himself  with  the  poultry  that  kept 
company  with  Mr.  Martin  Nubbles's  family.  In  the 
feathered  crowd  were  to  be  found  geese,  duc*ks,  hens, 
and  turkeys,  besides  a  few  of  those  very  disagreeable 
creatures  (to  many  persons)  called  guinea-hens. 

While  he  was  busily  engaged  in  counting  them  all  over, 
and  looking  about  the  premises  and  wondering  if  every 
body  else  kept  their  fowls  in  no  better  a  "place  than  that 
used  by  Mr.  Nubbles,  he  saw  a  tame  crow  hobbling  along 
up  to  him  that  began  to  cry  out  with  wide-open  mouth, 
as  if  for  something  to  eat.  Gabriel  of  course  gave  this 
black  personage  all  his  attention. 

"  Here,  Jack,"  called  he,  stooping  down  and  reaching 
out  his  hand.  "  Jack,  come  here  !" 

The  crow  seemed  to  understand  at  a  glance  that  the 
boy  was  not  his  master,  and  after  he  had  advanced  a  few 
steps  farther  he  cocked  up  his  head  and  winked  slyly 
with  a  single  eye,  as  much  as  to  say  to  him,  "  Where  's 
Kit  ?  You  're  not  Kit !  Don't  think  to  fool  me  so  easy !" 

Gabriel  kept  talking  to  the  sable  bird,  and  the  bird 
stood  on  one  leg  and  listened  to  him  patiently.  If  ever 
the  manner  of  a  crow  expressed  any  thing, -that  of  this 
crow  most  plainly  indicated  that  he  had  no  special  objec- 


KIT    AND    HIS    CEOW.  93 

tion  that  he  was  aware  of  to  making  the  acquaintance  of 
Gabriel,  and  that  he  would  stand  on  one  leg  ^  awhile  and 
hear  what  he  had  got  to  say  for  himself.  Now  and  then 
hWdropped  his  head,  perhaps  reflectively,  and  picked  up 
a  chip  with  his  long  bill ;  or  he  turned  over  the  other 
side  of  his  head  to  the  boy,  and  winked  with  a  fresh  en 
ergy  with  the  other  eye. 

At  length  Gabriel  reached  forward  to  catch  him ;  he 
thought  within  himself  that  even  the  sympathy  of  a  tame 
crow  was  better  than  no  sympathy  at  all,  and  that  there 
might  be  such  a  thing  as  his  winning  it  to  himself.  The 
crow  took  fright  at  this  sudden  movement,  and  giving  a 
hoarse  "  caw,  caw,  caw,"  flapped  his  broad  black  wings, 
and  sailed  up  to  the  top  of  a  post  that  helped  hold  up  the 
yard  fence. 

"  Here !  what  're  ye  doin'  to  my  crow  ?  What  do  ye 
want  of  Jack,  ye  little  pauper  ?"  instantly  cried  out  a 
voice  that  too  vividly  suggested  the  approaching  figure 
of  Kit.  "Jest  let  that  crow  alone!"  said  he,  no\v  appear 
ing  in  sight,  and  brandishing  his  arm  theateningly. 

"I  hav'n't  touched  him,"  murmured  Gabriel,  rising 
slowly  to  his  feet,  and  regarding  his  tormentor  with  in 
expressible  disgust. 

"  Had  n't  touched  him !"  repeated  Kit,  sullenly,  while 
his  round  moony  face  grew  redder  and  redder.  "  Then 
what  did  he  fly  away  for  ?  what  made  him  holler  so, 
then  ?" 

Gabriel  would  not  answer.  He  hardly  thought  it  re 
quired  of  him  that  he  should  enter  into  ornithological 
science  so  deeply  as  to  attempt  an  explanation  of  the 
bird's  motive  for  crying  out  "  caw — caw"  just  when  he 
wished  to. 

"  Come,  now,"  said  Kit,  moving  up  to  him,  "  you  hit 
him !" 


94  KIT    AND     HIS     CROW. 

"  I  did  no  such  tiling,"  replied  Gabriel. 

"  Don't  tell  me  you  did  n't,  now,  for  I  ain't  a-goin'  to 
be  contradicted!  You  hit  him,  I  tell  ye;  an' I '11  hit 
you !  Take  that !"  » 

Thereupon  the  calfy  boy  struck  Gabriel  a  heavy  blow 
across  his  stomach  that  nearly  knocked  the  breath  out  of 
his  body.  As  soon  as  he  had  successfully  accomplished 
this  feat  he  turned  and  ran  valiantly  for  the  house,  calling 
out  to  his  mother  for  assistance  all  the  way.  Gabriel 
caught  hold  of  a  bush  at  hand  to  prevent  his  falling  to 
the  ground,  and  gave  a  long  and  deep  groan. 

When  Kit  reached  the  house  he  narrated  to  his  mother 
how  that  Gabriel — that  miserable  little  pauper — had  tried 
to  kill  his  crow  by  striking  him  with  a  stick,  and  how 
he  had  fallen  afoul  of  him  when  told  that  he  must  let  the 
bird  alone,  and  would,  in  all  probability,  have  killed  him 
but  for  his  precipitate  retreat  to  the  house ;  and  he  be 
sought  his  mother  to  go  out  and  take  up  the  cudgels  in 
his  defense  immediately. 

She  happened  to  be  standing  at  the  long  wooden  sink 
washing  the  dishes ;  but  at  once  dropping  what  she  had  in 
her  hands,  and  stripping  down  the  greasy  dishwater  from 
her  arms,  she  muttered  something  about  their  family's  being 
overrun  and  turned  inside-out  by  paupers,  and  rushed  out, 
like  the  Amazon  she  was,  to  the  scene  of  the  difficulty. 

Gabriel  was  sitting  down  upon  a  log,  as  she  came  up, 
breathing  heavily  and  moaning  for  assistance.  His  face 
was  veiy  pale,  and  the  tears  were  running  down  his 
cheeks.  He  cast  up  a  look  of  patient  supplication  to  his 
mistress,  and  would  have  said  something  to  her  had  she 
allowed  him ;  but  rushing  upon  him  with  the  ferocity  of 
an  infuriated  bear  whose  single  cub  has  been  slaughtered 
before  her  eyes,  she  grabbed  him  by  the  narrow  collar  of 
his  jacket,  just  in  the  back  of  his  neck,  and  dragged  him, 


KITANDHISCEOW.  95 

unresisting  and  uncomplaining,  over  chips,  logs,  stones, 
and  brush-heaps,  straight  across  the  yard  into  the  house. 

When  she  found  she  had  him  securely  there,  she  set 
about  her  usual  pastime  of  boxing  his  ears,  shaking  him 
roughly  up  and  down  in  his  chair,  and  "  hitting  him  a 
clew"  now  and  then — as  she  quite  elegantly  expressed  it 
— over  his  diminutive  legs.  She  went  at  it  this  time  like 
a  real  fury.  She  acted  as  if  she  meant  to  make  a  final 
job  of  it,  if  she  could,  and  so  get  the  poor  little  wretch 
;ut  of  her  way  altogether. 

And  where  was  Kit?  what  was  he  doing  all  this  time? 
Ah !  there  he  stood  just  behind  the  outer  door,  peering 
round  the  edge  of  it  to  see  if  his  mother  "  gave  it  to  the 
young  rebel  good,"  and  occasionally  exclaiming  in  a  loud 
whisper — "  That 's  it,  mother  !  that 's  it !  I  'd  lick  him  if 
I  was  in  your  place  !"  The  face  of  the  valorous  youth  had 
become,  through  his  continued  excitement,  of  the  color 
of  a  bed  of  pinks.  He  swelled  up  at  his  fat  throat  like  a 
frog  beginning  to  whirr.  His  eyes  protruded,  and  glared 
about  on  every  object  that  was  within  the  range  of  his 
vision.  As  the  blows  fell  thick  and  fast  on  the  persecuted 
boy,  he  kept  chuckling  and  laughing,  and  growing  redder 
continually. 

Mr.  Nubbles  had  gone  away.  It  was  well,  perhaps, 
that  he  had,  else  Gabriel's  position  might  have  been  even 
less  endurable,  if  that  were  possible,  than  it  was. 

When  Mrs.  Nubbles  thought  that  the  boy  might  have 
got  enough,  although  she  had  no  means  of  judging  ex 
cept  by  the  subsidence  of  her  hasty  passion,  she  left  off 
beating,  and  took  to  scolding  him.  This  was  her  usual 
method  of  completing  her  administrations  of  punishment ; 
what,  in  the  graphic  language  of  her  son  Christopher, 
was  termed  "  topping  off." 

At  him,  therefore,  with  her  tongue  she  went,  hammer 


96  KIT    AND    HIS    CROW. 

and  t6ngs,  as  they  say.  It  seemed  as  if  she  could  scarcely 
keep  her  hands  off  of  him,  either.  Now  she  walked  close 
to  the  chair  in  which  she  had  seated  him,  brandishing  her 
fist  in  his  face;  and  now  she  clutched  and  grabbed  at 
imaginary  objects  of  hatred  in  the  air,  as  if  she  would 
like  to  tear  out  every  spear  of  hair  that  grew  in  his  head. 

"  My  Christopher !"  was  what  she  said,  but  only  a  small 
part  of  it,  however.  "  To  think  on  it !  Beating  my  own 
boy  till  he  can't  hardly  stan' !  Trying  to  kill  him,  yes, 
to  commit  a  murder  on  him,  and  would  have  done  it,  too, 
if  I  had  n't  come  and  saved  him  jest  as  I  did !  A  pretty 
state  of  things,  I  really  think!  A  fine  kind  of  a  prospect, 
when  I  must  be  a  lookin'  out  all  the  time  to  see  my  own 
son  layin'  dead  right  before  me.  A  fine  kind  of  prospect, 
I  sh'd  really  think !" — and  here  she  stopped  a  moment  to 
get  her  breath  again. 

Kit  walked  proudly  across  the  floor  once  or  twice,  ex 
actly  before  Gabriel,  making  much  exertion  to  insult  and 
bully  him  once  more  in  this  time  of  his  mental  and  bodily 
distress.  Gabriel  had  done  shedding  tears,  and  looked 
only  sadly  upon  the  floor,  not  even  daring  to  meet  the 
eyes  of  his  enemies.  There  was  a  great  deal  on  his 
heart  that  he  would  have  been  so  thankful  to  relieve  him 
self  of;  but  had  there  been  any  one  there  to  reach  out 
his  tenderer  sympathies  to  his  own,  he  would  have  been 
sure  to  burst  into  a  fit  of  weeping  that  would  have  choked 
articulation.  Poor  Gabriel !  not  so  much  as  one  friend  in 
the  midst  of  such  a  grievous  suffering ! 

"  You  '11  have  to  go  away  from  here,  young  man," 
went  on  Mrs.  Nubbles,  coming  down  gradually  from  pas 
sion  to  protestation  simply,  "for  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  live  so 
— there !  Mr.  Nubbles  'd  no  sort  o'  business  to  bring 
you  here  in  the  fust  place ;  but  as  long  's  he  has,  why 
you  must  git  along  with  rne  the  best  way  you  can.  I  've 


KIT    AXD    HIS    CROW.  97 

got  no  words  to  waste  on  sich  sort  of  bein's,  and  ft  ain't  at 
all  likely  that  I  shall  waste  'em  on  you.  A  word  and  a 
blow,  and  a  blow  fust — is  what'  you  '11  git  here ;  you'  11  git 
it  of  me,  I  can  tell  you  !" 

Gabriel  continued  to  look  down  on  the  floor  with  the 
same  sad  expression  as  before.  A  more  thoroughly 
friendless  person,  as  far  as  looks  went,  it  would  be  diffi 
cult  to  find.  He  thought  of  his  mother,  and  of  her  last 
words  to  him ;  when  he  stood  at  her  bedside  in  the  old 
poor-house — she  holding  his  hand  within  her  own  thin 
hand — and  looked  upon  his  pale  and  wasted  features,  and 
heard  her  syllables  of  deep  and  undying  affection  for 
him.  He  ran  over  once  more  in  his  thoughts  her  oft-re 
peated  injunctions  that  bade  him  ever  be  gentle,  and 
truthful,  and  noble  ;  and  to  scorn  the  meannesses  of  those 
who  behaved  from  motives  lower  than  these.  And  then 
as  he  brought  his  mind  forward  to  the  realities  that 
hemmed  him  in  on  every  side,  his  heart  almost  sank 
within  him,  and  the  tears  stole  unbidden  from  his  eyes. 

He  was  suddenly  started  from  his  melancholy  reverie 
again  by  the  shrill  voice  of  his  cruel  mistress. 

"  Now  't  you  're  here,"  said  she,  "  you  shall  make  your 
self  useful,  at  any  rate.  Do  you  know  where  'bouts  them 
new  folks  live  that  moved  into  town  a  few  weeks  ago  ?" 

Gabriel  hesitated. 

"  Over  acrost  them  lots  yender,  and  then  on  that  other 
road  to  the  village,"  she  added.  "  I  want  you  to  go  over 
there.  Their  names  is  Rivers.  You  (fan  inquire  for  Mr. 
Riverses  folks  ;  and  when  you  see  'em,  ask  'em  if  they 've 
engaged  all  their  butter  for  this  summer.  Can  you  do 
that  arrant,  think  ?" 

He  meekly  answered  that  he  would  try,  and  right  glad 
too  would  he  be  to  try  any  thing,  so  that  he  could  be 
respited  even  for  an  hour  from  his  present  state  of  suffering. 


98  KIT    AND    HIS    CROW. 

"  Wai,  git  your  cap  on  your  head,  then,"  said  she, 
"  and  let 's  see  you  try  !  Start  yourself  oft'  as  fast  as  ye 
can.  And  mind  another  thing,  now  ;  jest  keep  your  eyes 
about  you,  will  ye,  when  you  git  there,  and  see  what  sort 
o'  folks  they  air,  and  what  they  live  like.  I  want  to  know 
if  they  've  got  very  han'sum  furniture  ;  and  how  the 
kitchen  looks,  and  all  the  other  places ;  and  I  want  you 
to  see  all  you  can  and  tell  me  of  it  when  you  come  back. 
Now  jest  see  how  good  a  story  you  can  bring.  Off  with 
ye  !  But  be  careful  not  to  say  to  'em  what  I  wanted  to 
know  so  badly  :  it 's  the  summer  butter  that  I  'm  anxious 
to  git  word  on  so  particular  !" 

Receiving  such  dubious  and  puzzling  instructions,  he 
put  on  his  hat,  told  her  in  answer  to  her  question  whether 
he  knew  what  he  was  going  after,  that  he  believed  he 
did,  and  hurried  across  the  yard  to  the  road.  He  heard 
Kit's  disagreeable  voice,  as  he  reached  the  gate,  calling 
out  insultingly  to  him,  "  Had  to  ketch  it,  old  feller,  did  n't 
ye  ?  Mother  give  it  to  ye  good  that  time,  did  n't  she  ? 
Next  time  then,  try  to  kill  my  crow  !" 

Gabriel  did  not  demean  himself  by  answering  his  taunts. 
If  he  had  any  feeling  that  he  thoroughly  kncnv  to  be  at 
the  bottom  of  all  the  others,  it  was  a  feeling  of  the  pro- 
foundest  pity  for  the  poor  creature,  more  body  than  soul, 
that  took  such  a  delight  in  destroying  the  peace  of  one 
weaker  than  himself. 

The  air  on  the  old  road  did  good  service  for  the  boy, 
for  it  fanned  his  temples  and  cooled  his  heated  lips  ;  and 
its  invigorating  and  renovating  spirit  stole  through  his 
senses  into  his  heart.  The  boughs  of  the  trees  that  huno- 

o  O 

over  the  chestnut  rail  fences,  threw  down  pleasant  patches 
of  shadow  on  the  ground,  making  a  sort  of  mosaic  pave 
ment  beside  the  road,  and  inviting  him  further  within  the 
dim.  recesses  of  their  shelter. 


KITANDHISCKOW.  99 

After  walking  and  wandering  about  for  some  time,  he 
descried,  on  another  road,  the  house  he  thought  must  be 
the  one  to  which  he  had  been  sprit.  It  looked  so  lovely 
to  him  in  that  situation,  its  chimneys  rose  so  modestly 
from  its  cottage  roof,  the  piazza  and  the  shrubbery  were 
so  inviting  to  his  wearied  and  lacerated  feelings,  that  he 
hailed  the  sight  with  a  heartfelt  joy.  Oh,  if  he  could  but 
live  in  such  a  spot  himself,  and  be  forever  quit  of  the  en 
tire  Nubbles  family  ! 

He  walked  across  the  yard  to  the  side  door,  and  found 
it  open.  Martha  happened  to  be  near,  and  espied  him. 
So  small  a  boy,  so  pitiful  an  one  in  his  whole  appearance, 
and  a  boy  so  sad-faced,  if  not  sad-hearted,  excited  her 
sympathy  at  once.  She  approached  and  kindly  accosted 
him,  asking  him  who  he  was,  and  where  he  came  from. 

While  he  was  telling  his  story,  Mary  joined  her  sister 
at  the  door,  and  together  they  began  to  ply  him  with 
their  questions.  To  their  inquiry  where  he  lived,  he  had 
answered  "  with  Mr.  Nubbles ;"  and  when  they  asked  him 
where  he  lived,  he  told  them  "  over  on  Worrywiteh  Hill." 

"  But  where  was  Worrywitch  Hill  ?"  They  had  never 
heard  of  that  place  before. 

He  described  the  locality  as  well  as  he  could,  and  the 
kind  of  characters  that  dwelt  there,  human  and  inhuman. 

"  Mr.  Nubbles !"  said  Mary,,  laughingly,  "  What  an 
odd  name  !" 

"  And  Kit  Nubbles  !"  added  Martha.  "  That  is  the 
best  of  all." 

Gabriel  wondered  what  they  were  laughing  at. 

"  But  have  you  always  lived  there  ?"  said  Martha,  see 
ing  at  a  glance  that  there  must  be  a  story  about  it,  some 
where.  "  You  are  not  Mr.  Nubbles's  boy,  are  you  ?" 

It  was  a  very  modest  "  No,  ma'am,"  that  he  answered. 

There  was  that  in  the  face  of  the  sad -hearted  boy,  that 


100  KIT    AND    HIS    CKOW. 

appealed  to  her  sympathies  directly.  She  read  in  the 
lines  of  his  features  a  tale  that  only  those  quick  and  living 
in  their  sympathies,  like  herself,  can  read  in  such  hurried 
glances. 

"  Then  whose  boy  are  you  ?"  she  continued.  Her  sister 
with  folded  arms,  looked  with  manifest  interest  on  the 
scene. 

"My  mother  is  dead,"  said  he,  dropping  his  eyes  to 
the  ground.  "  She  died  in  the  Epping  poor-house  ;  and 
I  went  to  live  with  Mr.  Nubbles." 

The  silence  of  the  girls  betrayed  their  emotion. 

"  And  how  long  have  you  been  there  ?"  finally  put 
Martha  again. 

"  Only  a  few  weeks,  ma'am,"  said  Gabriel. 

"  Do  you  like  to  live  over  there  on  that  hill  with  such 
a  frightful  name  ?"  pursued  she. 

He  hesitated. 

"  Why,  Mat !"  exclaimed  her  sister.  "  You  should  n't 
ask  the  child  such  questions.  Perhaps  he  would  n't  like 
to  tell  you." 

"  Oh,  well  then  ;  he  need  n't,  certainly,  if  he  does  n't 
•wish  to.  I  do  not  mean  to  wound  his  feelings  at  all, 
sister." 

"  I  'd  rather  not  tell,"  said  he,  and  looked  up  into  his 
interrogator's  face  with  an  expression  of  such  innocent 
intelligence  as  was  absolutely  charming.  Martha  saw  it 
all  in  that  single  look,  and  forbore  to  pursue  her  inquiries 
any  further. 

After  a  while  Gabriel  mustered  courage  to  perform  his 
ostensible  errand  ;  the  real  one  he  had  absolutely  suffered 
to  pass  out  of  his  mind. 

The  sisters  made  him  come  in  and  sit  down  in  the  littlo 
breakfast-room ;  and  while  Martha  kindly  gave  him  a 
good,  generous  slice  of  her  best  cake,  Mary  had  gone 


KIT    AND    HIS    CROW.  101 

to  make  due  inquiries  in  reference  to  the  supplies  of  sum 
mer  butter. 

Gabriel  could  not  well  avoid  noticing  the  various  marks 
of  partiality  that  Martha  showed  him,  nor  the  compas 
sionate  attention  she  manifested.  He  loved  he,r  already, 
if  only  for  her  sweet  face,  that  seemed  to  radiate  hap 
piness  all  around  her.  He  felt,  in  only  this  momentary 
acquaintance,  that  in  her  heart  he  might  find  a  refuge. 
Oh,  that  he  might  be  permitted  at  some  time  to  pour  out 
all  his  griefs  to  her,  and  feel  himself  secure  in  the  warm 
embrace  of  her  sympathies ! 

Mary  returned  with  her  mother,  who,  after  sundry 
precautionary  inquiries  of  a  general  charactei',  sent  word 
back  to  the  boy's  mistress  that  a  sample  of  her  butter, 
together  with  her  terms,  might  be  returned  as  soon  as 
convenient.  Mrs.  Rivers  herself  likewise  took  much  no 
tice  of  Gabriel,  putting  him  sundry  questions,  which  was 
her  mode  of  expressing  sympathy  for  one  in  so  destitute 
and  friendless  a  condition. 

Martha,  kind  and  thoughtful  Martha,  followed  him  to 
the  gate,  plucking  two  or  three  early  garden  flowers  for 
him  as  she  went  along,  and  telling  him  in  a  low  voice 
that  he  must  not  cry  any  more.  He  looked  up  at  her  as 
if  to  ask  how  she  knew  he  had  been  crying ;  and  instantly 
— so  strong  and  so  subtle  was  the  magnetism  of  her  pity 
ing  look,  the  tears  stole  into  his  eyes  again. 

The  reader  will  be  no  wise  astonished  or  disappointed 
to  learn  that  Mrs.  Nubbles  threw  the  flowers  Gabriel 
brought  with  him  into  the  fire  forthwith,  and  that  after 
getting  the  butter  returns — she  got  no  other — she  set 
Gabriel  about  his  old  avocations  near  herself,  with  stirnu 
lated  energy  of  purpose. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE    WOKTH    OF    A    RELATION". 

IF  you  are  perfectly  willing,  dear  reader,  I  would  like 
to  carry  you  back  about  five  years. 

At  that  time  a  young  man  from  the  country  some 
where,  Duncan  Morrow  by  name,  was  sauntering  thought 
fully  along  the  streets  of  the  city,  feasting  his  hungry  eyes 
on  the  great  variety  of  sights  that  greeted  him  on  every 
hand — some  of  the  time  talking  aloud  to  himself  in  broken 
sentences,  and  appearing  to  be  enmeshed  in  the  network 
of  a  dream. 

Young  as  he  was — and  he  could  not  have  been  more 
than  eighteen — he  already  was  possessed  of  a  very  fine 
face,  and  a  handsome,  well-knit  figure.  Now  he  stepped 
over  the  pavement  with  a  light  and  buoyant  step,  as  if  his 
thoughts  bounded  with  a  sudden  elasticity  ;  and  now  he 
almost  dragged  his  feet  behind  him,  as  if  he  were  really 
loth  to  pursue  any  further  the  purpose  on  Avhich  he  had 
determined. 

Yet  there  was  that  in  his  countenance  that  indicated  a 
high  aim  and  a  resolute  will.  Even  when  his  gait  changed 
so  suddenly  he  did  not  seem  to  betray  any  serious  symp 
toms  of  vacillation.  His  eye  was  open,  full  of  vivacity, 
and  expressive  of  the  most  perfect  frankness.  A  cloud 
of  thoughtfulness  threw  its  dull  shadow  across  his  brow  ; 
but  it  indicated 'nothing  like  confusedness,  or  perplexity, 


THE    WOETH     OP    A    RELATION.  lOtf 

or  a  lack  of  complete  reliance  on  his  own  power.  Pie  car 
ried  himself  erectly,  regarding  what  was  around  him. 
without  the  least  degree  of  bewilderment,  albeit  with 
some  considerable  curiosity. 

Had  any  one  been  sufficiently  inquisitive  to  have  fol 
lowed  after  this  individual  wherever  he  went,  he  would 
have  necessarily  been  seduced  into  a  walk  that  he  other 
wise  might  never  have  taken.  Up  one  street,  and  down 
another ;  now  doubling  upon  his  own  course,  and  now 
making  no  headway  at  all ;  around  one  corner  at  first, 
and  then  coming  presently  pat  on  that  very  same  corner 
again :  forward  and  backward  thus  he  went  in  quest  of 
the  object  for  which  he  had  originally  come  to  the  city. 

Now  and  then  he  drew  a  little  card  from  his  pocket, 
which  he  paused  to  consult ;  and  then  nervously  thrust 
ing  it  back  into  its  place  of  secretion,  he  went  on  again. 

Presently  he  drew  in  sight  of  the  wharves.  A  view  of 
the  vessels  threw  him  into  better  spirits  immediately.  He 
pushed  on  directly  for  their  vicinity,  and  by  dint  of  judi 
cious  inquiry,  soon  found  himself  on  the  particular  street 
he  sought.  It  remained  now  only  for  him  to  walk  along 
till  he  came  to  the  number  designated  on  his  card. 

Arriving  before  a  certain  dingy  building,  he  looked  up 
along  the  door ;  and  to  the  side  of  it  he  saw  secured  a 
small,  narrow  strip  of  tin,  on  which  was  painted  in 
capitals : — 


JACOB  DOLLAE. 


"Yes,"  said  he,  aloud,  "I've  found  it  finally."  So 
making  a  spring  and  a  bound,  he  landed  half  way  up  the 
stairs  at  once. 


104  THE    WORTH     OF    A    RELATION. 

From  the  head  of  the  flight  he  pushed  his  way  along 
to  the  little  half-glass  door  of  an  office  or  counting-room, 
in  which  was  seated  an  individual  alone.  At  a  single 
glance  through  the  window  the  young  man  observed  that 
he  was  intently  engaged  over  the  morning  paper.  His 
back  being  tui'ned  toward  the  door,  Duncan  likewise  ob 
served  that  his  head  was  rather  gray,  and  on  its  crown 
decidedly  bald.  Before  venturing  to  open  the  door  and 
enter,  an  inconceivable  whim  possessed  him  to  look  around 
the  gloomy  apartment  from  which  this  miniature  room 
had  been  cornered  off. 

It  was  a  low,  dark,  and  dirty  room,  with  a  great  va 
riety  of  articles  of  different  degrees  of  value  and  usefulness 
stowed  away  back  in  its  rear,  and  seemed  rather  to  be  a 
loft  for  the  lodgment  of  lumber — boards,  boxes,  casks  and 
staves — than  a  place  for  the  regular  transaction  of  a 
respectable  business. 

Dust  was  every  where,  upon  every  thing — piled  thick 
and  high ;  a  wine-cellar  itself  could  not  have  asked  for 
more.  And  cobwebs  hung  plentifully  around,  swinging 
and  sailing  on  the  draughts  of  air  that  entered,  and  cur 
taining  windows,  chinks,  crevices  and  holes  with  a  gro- 
tesqueness  that  many  might  have  mistaken  for  grace. 
The  floor  was  stained  and  filthy,  and  the  dirt  had  been 
pressed  and  matted  down  by  continual  stepping  upon  it. 
In  any  view  and  every  view  it  was  a  thoroughly  dun- 
geony  and  uninviting  place. 

The  young  man  turned  the  latch  and  went  in.  As  the 
door  opened  the  elderly  gentleman  crushed  his  paper  to 
gether  in  his  lap  and  looked  round  over  his  shoulders  to 
see  who  it  was.  And  the  youth  walked  forward  until  he 
stood  before  his  face. 

"  Ah  !"  said  the  master  of  the  premises,  when  his  first 
glance  assured  him  that  he  had  a  stranger  in  his  web ; 


THE    WORTH     OF    A    EELATION.  105 

"  good-morning,  sir !"  and  he  pulled  along  a  vacant  chair 
with  his  foot  for  his  visitor  to  sit  down  upon. 

Duncan  sat  down  in  obedience  to  the  hint  thus  deli 
cately  conveyed,  and  took  off  his  hat  with  the  design  of 
making  both  himself  and  his  errand  better  known. 

"  My  name  is  Morrow,"  said  the  young  man,  without 
further  preface  ;  "  Duncan  Morrow." 

"Um!"  responded  the  other,  rather  pleasantly  than 
unpleasantly,  as  if  he  did  not  as  yet  see  exactly  what  that 
fact  had  to  do  with  him.  Yet  his  gray,  greedy  eyes  did 
brighten  the  least  degree  in  the  world  when  the  sound  of 
that  name  first  greeted  his  ears. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  my  uncle,"  said  Duncan,  expecting 
his  relative  to  do  nothing  less  now  than  rise  from  his 
chair  and  embrace  him. 

"  Eh  ?"  asked  the  man.  "  Humph  !  what  did  you  say 
just  now  ?" 

"  I  believe  I  am  your  nephew,"  returned  Duncan,  this 
time  quite  modestly. 

"  My  nephew,  hey  ?  Well,  and  how  do  you  go  to  work 
to  make  that  out  ?" 

The  cold-blooded  man  of  money  threw  his  arm  over  a 
neighboring  chair,  still  holding  the  newspaper  between 
his  thumb  and  forefinger,  and  tilted  himself  backward  in 
an  attitude  that  was  the  perfection  of  lazy  ease  and  com 
fort.  Looking  Duncan  fixedly  in  the  face  with  his  cold, 
dull,  unfeeling  eye,  he  repeated  his  interrogatory,  "  How 
do  you  make  that  out  ?" 

"  Is  not  your  name,  then,  Mr.  Dollar  ?"  asked  the 
young  man. 

"  Well,  it  is.  Nobody  was  ever  disposed  to  call  that 
in  question  that  I  know  of.  What  then  ?" 

"  Is  it  not  Mr.  Jacob  Dollar  ?" 

"  Most  assuredly,  sir." 

5* 


106  THE    WORTH     O.F    A    RELATION. 

"  Then  you  are  certainly  my  xmcle." 

"  Humph  !  I  don't  see  that  yet !" 

"  If  you  will  permit  me  to  explain,"  pursued  the  young 
man. 

"  Oh  !  as  for  that,  I  'm  not  so  very  particular  as  you 
may  think  me  ;  but  go  on  if  you  've  got  any  thing  of  any 
importance  to  say.  Go  on,  sir,  if  you  wish.  It 's  all 
nothing  to  me,  I  'm  sure." 

"  My  mother's  maiden  name,"  said  Duncan,  "  was  Dol 
lar.  She  was  your  own  sister.  Though  I  do  not  remem 
ber  ever  to  have  seen  you — " 

"  No,  I  guess  you  never  did,"  interrupted  Mr.  Dollar. 

"  Yet  I  do  remember  very  well  what  she  has  told  me, 
on  the  subject,  from  my  earliest  days." 

"  Urn !"  chimed  in  the  merchant,  flapping  his  paper  to 
and  fro  rather  uneasily  in  his  hand. 

"  She  is  dead,"  said  the  nephew. 

"  I  suppose  she  is,"  returned  the  merchant,  without  the 
least  betrayal  of  regard  for  her. 

"  And  left  some  property,  somewhere — though  it  was 
but  a  little." 

"  Where  did  she  leave  it  ?  Do  you  know  ?"  asked  the 
merchant,  fixing  his  cold  eyes  steadily  on  those  of  his 
nephew. 

"  I  believe  it  was  intrusted  to  your  management,"  said 
Duncan.  "  Was  it  not  ?" 

"  To  my  management !  To  my — um !  No.  I  know 
nothing  at  all  about  it !  I  never  knew  that  she  owned  a 
single  dollar  in  the  world !  How  should  I  know  of  such 
things,  pray  ?  To  my  management,  truly !  Umph  !" 

"  Yet  I  really  do  not  understand  why  she  should  say 
so,  if  such  was  not  the  fact." 

"  Young  man,"  returned  his  uncle,  increasing,  if  pos 
sible,  the  searching  severity  of  his  look  toward  him. 


I  * 

THE    WORTH     OF    A     RELATION.  107 

"young  man,  I  fear  you've  got  into  the  wrong  shop 
here!  Before  you  set  about  your  work,  whatever  it  is, 
let  me  just, advise  you  to  understand  your  ground. 
Please  to  remember  what  I  tell  you,  as  long  as  you  live. 
It  will  do  you  a  great  deal  of  good,  and  save  you  much 
trouble  before  you  get  through !" 

"But  it  was  for  nothing  of  this  kind  that  I  ventured  to  call 
in  on  you,"  said  Duncan,  in  a  style  of  coolness  and  steadi 
ness  that  surprised  even  so  collected  a  man  as  his  uncle. 

"  Um !"  again  exclaimed  the  latter,  forcing  up  the 
sound  from  a  great  way  down  his  throat. 

Just  then  the  office  door  opened,  and  a  young  man  en 
tered.  He  was  overmuch  dressed,  and  seemed  to  feel 
quite  satisfied  with  the  impression  he  must  make  upon 
every  one.  Going  straight  to  the  desk,  he  filled  out  the 
blank  form  of  a  check,  and  stepped  to  his  father  to  ask 
him  to  sign  it.  The  latter  glanced  at  the  figures,  by 
which  the  amount  was  specified,  and  immediately  thrust 
his  hand  into  his  pocket.  Drawing  forth  a  huge  pocket- 
book,  he  opened  it  with  great  care,  and  took  from  it  a 
number  of  bank  notes,  and  of  not  the  smallest  denomina 
tion,  either. 

"  Take  these,  my  son,"  said  the  father.  "  Give  me  the 
check.  I'd  rather  you  wouldn't  go  to  the  bank.  Come 
always  to  me.  Only  be  prudent,  Henry.  You  know 
what  I've  often  told  you." 

And  upon  this,  Mr.  Dollar  took  the  check  from  his  son, 
and  laid  it  on  the  little  fire  of  coals. 

The  last  comer  threw  a  hasty  glance  at  his  cousin,  not 
once  dreaming  that  he  was  such,  and  went  out,  gayly 
humming  and  whistling  together  a  snatch  from  one  of  the 
newest  operatic  solos,  while  he  employed  his  hands  with 
readjusting  the  little  diamond  pin  that  glittered  against 
the  rich  ground  of  his  satin  neckerchief. 


108  THE    WORTH     OF    A    RELATION. 

Duncan  thought  he  could  take  into  his  comprehension 
the  young  man's  character  at  once  ;  and  if  he  knew  how 
he  felt,  he  thought  that  he  felt  really  disgusted. 

"  What  I  took  the  liberty  to  come  in  for  this  mom- 
ing,"  said  he,  returning  to  the  topic  that  chiefly  interested 
him,  "  was  to  ask  of  you  a  little  assistance.  I  am  not 
very  well  supplied  with  money,  and  feel  anxious  to  secure 
some  regular  business  for  myself,  in  which  I  may  have  a 
chance  of  advancement.  I  thought  that  possibly  you 
could  help  me  a  little." 

Mr.  Dollar  preserved  silence,  though  he  shook  his  head 
negatively  and  very,  very  slowly.  Now  he  fixed  his  eyes 
on  the  deadened  fire. 

"  Perhaps  you  would  be  willing  to  assist  me  in  getting 
such  a  place  as  I  want  ?"  said  Duncan. 

"  No,  I  know  of  none,"  he  answered,  still  intent  on  the 
fire,  and  trying  to  look — even  when  he  spoke — as  if  no 
second  person  was  in  the  room. 

"  Could  you  not  give  me  a  place  with  yourself?"  asked 
the  young  man. 

"  No,  sir  ;  I  don't  want  a  clerk.  My  son  Henry  is  all 
the  clerk  I  need." 

A  pause  of  a  minute  or  two. 

"  Do  you  know  of  any  firm  that  would  like  assistance, 
sir  ?"  pursued  Duncan. 

Mr.  Dollar  turned  on  him  now  with  a  highly  sardonic 
smile ;  and  asked  him  how  he  thought  he  was  going  to 
be  of  assistance  to  any  one,  when  he  was  the  very  person 
most  in  need  of  that  article  !  There  was  an  uncalled  for 
rancor  in  the  tone  of  the  remark  that  did  not  escape  the 
just  appreciation  of  the  nephew.  But  unmindful  of  the 
sneering  reproof,  the  young  man  ventured  another  ap 
peal. 

"  May  I  ask  you  then,  sir,  if  you  will  lend  me  a  small 


I  I 

THE    WORTH    OF    A    RELATION.  109 

sum  of  money,  until  I  can  repay  you.  I  can  then  have 
more  time  to  look  about  for  myself." 

"  I  'm  not  in  the  habit  of  making  permanent  invest 
ments,"  was  the  sarcastic  reply. 

"  But  I  will  pledge  you  my  honor  that  every  cent  shall 
be  returned,  with  full  interest  added !" 

"  Honor,  as  you  call  it,  don't  pass  for  security,  exactly, 
among  business  men." 

"  Then  if  I  can  find  abundant  security,  you  are  willing 
to  oblige  me  with  a  loan  ?"  said  Duncan,  trying  to  make 
the  best  of  it. 

"I  don't  know  about  that,  either,"  answered  Mr.  Dollar. 

The  young  man  looked  straight  into  his  uncle's  face. 
For  aliJoment — and  but  for  a  moment — the  blood  man 
tled  his  cheeks,  his  forehead,  and  flew  into  his  eyes  with 
its  rapid  flush  ;  and  then  he  was  suddenly  calmer  than 
the  man  who  so  coldly  and  sneeringly  repelled  him. 

At  once  a  lofty  resolve  took  possession  of  his  soul.  It 
seemed  to  fill  him  with  a  new  and  unwonted  strength. 
He  immediately  rose  from  his  seat,  and  abruptly  wished 
his  uncle  good-morning. 

"  Good-morning,  sir,"  returned  the  latter  with  all  his 
former  cold  civility. 

And  long,  long  after  the  door  shut  again,  that  icy- 
hearted  man  sat  in  the  same  position,  gazing  with  a  rapt 
silence  into  the  fire.  Occasionally  he  gave  utterance  to 
some  exclamation,  as  if  he  might  not  be  clear  of  ah1  fears ; 
but  that  was  all.  And  even  these  ejaculations  echoed 
with  a  dull  and  leaden  voice  against  the  walls  of  his  low 
and  dingy  counting-room. 

For  once  in  his  life,  the  astute  man  of  trade  had  made 
a  great  mistake  hi  his  maneuvering.  Possibly,  in  good 
time,  he  would  be  allowed  to  see  it  more  plainly  for 
himself. 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE    TRAVELING     MENAGERIE. 

MRS.  NUBBLES  could  hardly  bring  herself  to  it;  but 
she  did  yield  in  time.  How  she  came  to  give  in,  and 
give  in  to  her  husband,  too — that  is  a  point  that,  if  ex 
plained  at  all,  will  be  done  as  completely  in  six  wp.rds  as 
in  sixty. 

The  fact  was,  when  warm  weather  was  settled — Ga 
briel's  life  having  been  providentially  prolonged  through 
his  many  sufferings  until  that  period — a  traveling  me 
nagerie  happened  to  stray  away  through  the  country  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Draggledew  Plain,  and  pitched  its 
soiled  canvas  tents  just  within  the  little  manufacturing 
village  of  Spindleville. 

Now  Mr.  Nubbles  was  going  over  himself.  He  never 
failed  to  go  to  such  places.  And  Kit  was  going  too. 
Should  Gabriel  go  ?  That  was  the  question. 

Mrs.  Nubbles  said — no.  Mr.  Nubbles  said — yes.  And 
between  them  both  what  was  likely  to  be  done  ? 

But  Kit — for  a  wonder — chanced  to  feel  in  a  decent 
mood  just  at  the  crisis  of  this  parental  dispute,  and 
bawled  out  to  them  both — 

"  Thunder !     Let  him  go !    What 's  the  use,  mother  ?" 

And  so  Gabriel  went.  And  that  was  the  way  he  came 
to  go. 

It  would  have  made  even  Mr.  Nubbles's  old  mare  her 
self  laugh,  if  she  could  have  been  allowed  to  stand  some- 


THE    TRAVELING    MENAGERIE.  Ill 

where  by  the  side  of  the  road  and  see  the  turnout  that 
day  achieved  by  the  male  portion  of  the  family.  Or  if  the 
same  animal  could  only  have  stolen  a  furtive  glance  over 
her  shoulder,  and  noted  the  various  and  ludicrous  pecu 
liarities  of  the  picturesque  group  behind  her,  she  must 
certainly  have  plodded  on  to  the  end  of  her  journey 
showing  her  horse-teeth  all  the  way  ! 

There  sat  Mr.  Nubbles,  exactly  in  the  middle  of  the 
great,  deep-backed,  high-shouldered  seat ;  with  one  hand 
pulling  by  the  reins  as  earnestly  as  if  his  steed  were  capa 
ble  of  making  the  time  of  a  Highflyer,  in  the  place  of 
being  the  broken-spirited,  cob-meal  eating  jade  she  was — 
and  with  the  other  steadying  the  hickory  stalk  of  his 
whip  over  his  right  shoulder;  while  from  beneath  the 
narrow  rim  of  his  enormous  bell-shaped  hat — seedy  as 
the  very  hat  itself — floated  out  upon  the  light  wind  the 
mahogany-hued  locks  that  neighbored  upon  his  long  ears ; 
his  knees  set  up  sharply,  and  together ;  and  his  eyes 
fixed — like  the  eyes  of  a  pilot  in  a  gale — in  the  forward 
direction  he  was  so  anxious  for  his  mare  to  take  him. 

Kit  was  jammed  and  squeezed  into  the  seat  on  one  side 
of  his  father,  for  comfort's  sake  rather  rolled  up  on  his 
side,  his  chubby  cheeks  pressed  in  against  his  eyes  nearly 
as  hard  as  his  father  was  pressing  upon  him,  and  one  fat 
hand  grasping  the  seat  as  if  for  speedy  deliverance  from 
the  operation  that  was  being  performed  on  him.  As 
the  old  wagon  jolted  over  the  stones  and  down  into  the 
pitches,  and  as  Kit  labored  only  the  harder  to  hold  on, 
his  reddened  cheeks  vibrated  like  two  solid  molds  of 
jelly  freshly  formed. 

Gabriel  sat  in  the  bottom  of  the  wagon  right  in  front 
of  them  both,  now  preserving  his  equilibrium  by  hugging 
fondly  the  long  leg  of  Mr.  Nubbles,  and  now  by  quickly 
throwing  an  arm  over  the  high,  old-style  dasher. 


112  THE    TRAVELING    MENAGERIE. 

Grotesque  and  fanciful  as  this  party  of  travelers  looked, 
the  fact  that  they  were  themselves  least  conscious  of  any 
thing  of  the  kind  served  but  to  make  them  still  more  so. 
Now  the  dust  rose  up  in  a  cloud  in  their  faces.  Now  Mr. 
Nubbles  took  down  the  hickory  whip-stalk  from  over  his 
right  shoulder,  and  belabored  the  poor  beast  till  she 
would  fain  have  turned  round  and  asked  him  what  on 
earth  he  wanted.  In  truth,  Mr.  Nubbles  wanted  nothing ; 
he  did  not  even  know  that  he  wanted  her  to  go  faster. 
But  he  had  refreshed  himself  just  before  leaving  home 
that  morning  with  a  plentiful  supply  of  spirits  and  water, 
and  his  ideas  now  began  very  naturally  to  quicken  a  little 
under  its  influence ;  so  that  by  means  of  his  whip  he  was 
simply  giving  proof  of  his  awakening  feelings.  Perhaps, 
by  long  acquaintance,  the  mare  knew  this  very  well ;  and 
that  might  be  the  reason  why  she  jogged  along  in  just 
the  same  slow  and  steady  trot,  taking  up  her  feet  not  a 
bit  faster  for  her  master's  urgency. 

The  moment  they  came  in  sight  of  the  village  of  Spin- 
dleville,  with  the  many  factory  buildings  holding  their 
heads  high  up  in  the  sun,  their  roofs  turreted,  and  bel- 
fried,  and  balconied — Kit  instinctively  gave  utterance  to 
a  cry  of  joy ;  and  upon  Gabriel's  looking  round  in  his 
face,  he  discovered  that  the  gross  creature  was  opening 
and  shutting  his  eyes  Avith  the  delight  that  had  taken  pos 
session  of  him.  Gabriel  continued  to  gaze  at  him,  for  in 
his  innocence  he  thought  him  a  phenomenon  quite  as 
noticeable  as  any  he  would  see  that  day  in  cage  and  under 
canvas. 

Suddenly  a  great  change  came  over  Kit's  countenance. 

"  What  're  you  starin'  at,  gawky  ?"  said  he  to  Gabriel, 
who  had  become  so  much  interested  in  him  that  he  foi 
got  he  Avas  looking  steadily  in  his  face. 

The  latter  immediately  turned  his  head  in  the  other 


THE    TRAVELING    MENAGERIE.  113 

direction.  And  then  Kit  reached  forth  his  foot  and 
kicked  him. 

"  Now  learn  to  look  to  home,  will  ye !"  said  he,  in  a 
low  tone,  gritting  his  teeth. 

"  What  ye  'bout,  Kit  ?"  sounded  up  his  father,  waking 
out  of  a  half  reverie  and  looking  down  on  his  son. 

"  Oh,  father !"  exclaimed  he,  playing  well  his  part  of 
the  petty  hypocrite — "oh,  I  want  ter  see  that  cage  o' 
monkeys  so  much !  Wonder  if  I  can't  buy  one !  Thun 
der  !  what  d'  ye  s'pose  they  'd  take,  father  ?" 

"  Guess  they  won't  sell  'em,"  said  his  father,  looking 
remarkably  wise,  and  giving  the  mare  another  cut  with 
the  lash. 

The  creature,  justly  offended  at  last,  whisked  her  tail 
around  into  Gabriel's  face  and  eyes,  bringing  tears.  Kit 
laughed  aloud — "  Ho !  ho  !  ho !" 

Another  exciting  moment  was  it  for  them  when  they 
came  to  a  convenient  place  by  the  road  side  on  the  vil 
lage  outskirts,  and  took  out  the  mare  from  the  wagon, 
throwing  down  to  her  the  bundle  of  hay  Mr.  Nubbles 
had  brought  stowed  in  behind  the  seat ;  and  a  still  more 
exciting  one  when  they  went  from  this  spot,  sauntering 
over  to  the  mammoth  tents  in  which  were  concealed  the 
day's  curiosities. 

Mr.  Nubbles  walked  ahead,  Kit  directly  behind  him, 
while  Gabriel  meekly  brought  up  the  rear.  Mr.  Nubbles 
kept  his  right  hand  stuck  just  in  the  edge  of  his  breeches 
pocket,  and  went  blundering  and  stumbling  along,  half 
speaking  to  every  one  he  met,  and  now  and  then  stop 
ping  to  inquire  if  things  were  all  right  over  there  at  the 
tent,  and  pretty  nearly  as  they  were  advertised.  After 
he  had  received  abundant  assurances  on  the  subject, 
without  further  preliminaries  he  made  directly  for  the 
scene  of  his  day's  operations. 


114  THE    TRAVELING    MENAGERIE. 

In  their  way  were  strung  along  several  little  booths, 
and  many  cake  and  cooky  stands,  the  sights  and  savors 
around  which  at  once  impressed  Mr.  Nubbles's  attention  ; 
but  not  a  whit  quicker  than  they  had  that  of  his  only 
son  Kit. 

"  Father !"  called  out  his  offspring — "  cakes !  and  beer ! 
Father !'» 

So  his  parent  very  deliberately  drew  up  before  one  of 
the  gingerbread  stalls  that  consisted  of  nothing  more 
than  a  rough  pine  board  laid  across  the  heads  of  a  couple 
of  empty  flour-barrels ;  upon  it  were  a  dozen  bottles  or 
so  of  spruce  beer,  a  pile  of  cheap  varnished  gingerbread, 
and  four  or  five  small  plates  of  opened  oysters,  that  must, 
in  a  consumptive  state,  have  bade  farewell  to  existence, 
lying  dead  there  in  their  own  slime,  and  trying  to  cook 
in  the  broad  heat  of  the  sun  that  shone  down  upon  them. 

Mr.  Nubbles  regarded  his  boy  as  he  called  out  to  him. 

"  What  '11  ye  have,  Kit  ?"  said  he,  his  right  hand  still 
in  rest  at  the  edge  of  his  pocket. 

"  Gingerbread !"  said  the  son. 

"  Yis,"  remarked  Mr.  Nubbles  to  the  salesman,  taking 
his  hand  from  his  pocket,  and  gesticulating  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  sweetened  sheets.  "  Yis,  le  's  have !" 

"  Beer,  too,"  said  Kit,  his  cheeks  distended  with  the 
large  circular  piece  he  had  ravenously  abstracted  from 
the  gingerbread. 

"  Beer !"  ordered  Mr.  Nubbles  of  the  man,  who  was 
regarding  the  gormandizing  youth  with  a  merry  twinkle 
of  his  eye.  "  Have  some,  Gabriel  ?"  the  factor  offering  a 
third  thin  glass  tumbler. 

"  No,  sir,"  answered  Gabriel.     "  I  don't  wish  for  any." 

"  What,  nor  no  gingerbread,  neither  ?" 

"  No,  sir ;  I  thank  you." 

"  Let  him  go  without  then,  father,"  said  Kit,  nearly 


THE    TRAVELING    MENAGERIE.  116 

choking  himself  to  get  the  kind  injunction  out  of  his 
mouth  as  quick  as  he  wanted.  "  He  don't  know  nothin' 
how  good  'tis !  He  '11  learn,  tnebby,  one  o'  these  days 
though !» 

And  thereupon  Kit  bolted  his  full  glass  of  beer  at  a 
draught,  and  began  to  wipe  his  mouth  with  the  cuff  of 
his  sleeve,  saying  to  himself — 

"  Gracious  !     That  »s  good !     Good  !" 

Mr.  Nubbles  eat  gingerbread,  as  he  always  did  at  such 
places ;  and  the  alternate  bite  of  the  sweet  card  and 
draught  of  bubbling  beer  seemed  to  him  to  taste  all  the 
better,  flavored  as  they  were  with  the  delicious  strains  of 
a  squeaking  fiddle  from  a  neighboring  booth,  and  the 
riotous  "  toroddle-torol"  of  a  party  of  tipsy  singers  who 
were  strolling  arm  in  arm  over  the  ground. 

Mr.  Nubbles's  little  party  continued  standing  at  the 
fourpenny  stall  for  some  time  longer,  enjoying  it  quite 
all  they  could,  and  forming  objects  of  downright  gratifi 
cation  to  those  not  altogether  as  unique  in  appearance  as 
themselves. 

The  inside  of  the  tents  or  pavilions  afforded  them  a 
treat  for  which  even  they  were  hardly  prepared.  Every 
thing  looked  so  magnificent,  so  bewildering.  They  gazed 
and  gazed,  till  their  sense  of  vision  must  certainly  have 
been  the  acutest  sense  of  all  the  five.  And  as  they  wan 
dered,  so  they  wondered. 

Here  were  cages  of  leopards,  spotted  all  so  beautifully 
and  looking  sleeker  and  softer  than  any  cats.  And  here 
were  cages  of  tigers,  and  cages  of  panthers  and  hyenas, 
snarling  and  growling  continually  at  the  visitors  and  at 
each  other  ;  and  of  zebras,  striped  as  regularly  as  if  some 
human  hand,  armed  with  paint  and  brush,  had  done  it  all ; 
and  of  horned  horses,  looking  like  nothing  at  all  either 
on  the  earth  itself,  or  in  the  waters  under  the  earth ;  and 


116  THE    TRAVELING    MENAGERIE. 

of  huge  human-visage^ apes  and  baboons,  great  serious- 
looking  creatures,  around  whom  people  gathered  with  a 
feeling  of  half-stupid  wonder  ;  and  another  cage,  with  va 
rious  subdivisions,  full  of  monkeys,  great  and  small,  whose 
motions  seemed  perpetual,  and  whose  antics  provoked 
peal  upon  peal  of  laughter  from  those  who,  for  some  rea 
son,  thought  themselves  wiser  than  they. 

And  there  were  high  and  long  coops  of  birds,  from  land 
and  sea,  such  as  Kit  Nubbles  had  never  seen  or  heard  of 
before,  even  if  his  father  had,  that  kept  up  a  ceaseless  din 
of  screams  and  screeches ;  and  boxes  of  serpents,  hideous 
and  frightful,  a  sight  of  which  made  the  very  flesh  creep  ; 
and  stuffed  specimens  of  one  thing  and  another ;  wax 
figures  and  other  curiosities,  as  like  as  horse-chestnuts  are 
to  chesnut  horses,  and  marvelously  interesting  those  who 
had  never  regaled  their  eyes  on  such  articles  of  virtu  be- 
foro. 

Kit  seemed  determined  to  stick  by  the  cage  of  mon 
keys  ;  and  feeling  that  he  was  perfectly  safe  in  that  place, 
his  father  concluded  to  leave  him  for  a  little  time  and  go 
round  and  pick  up  a  few  old  friends  of  his  own.  At  first 
Gabriel  kept  near  Kit,  and  listened  to  what  that  youth 
had  to  say — to  himself  of  course — of  his  friends  on  the 
other  side  of  the  bars  ;  but  he  found  very  soon  that  he 
was  growing  tired  of  this,  and  thought  there  could  be  no 
possible  harm  in  his  looking  round  a  little  elsewhere  for 
himself. 

So  that  when  the  never-omitted  pony  performance  came 
on,  the  grotesque  group  that  Mr.  Nubbles's  mare  had  that 
morning  brought  over  to  the  place  of  entertainment  were 
scattered  and  divided,  neither  knowing  where  the  other 
was. 

Not  long  before  the  exhibition  performances  were  over, 
a  man  with  a  queer  expression  of  face,  whom  Gabriel  had 


THE    TRAVELING    MENAGERIE.  117 

observed  eyeing  him  pretty  closely  for  some  time,  finally 
reached  down  to  take  the  boy's  hand  in  his  own,  and 
asked  him  where  he  belonged. 

Gabriel  told  him  ;  and  told  him  the  whole  story. 

"  Humph !"  said  the  man,  in  an  enticing  manner ; 
"  that 's  no  place  at  all !" 

Gabriel's  eyes  suddenly  opened.  Perhaps  this  man 
could  show  him  a  better  ! 

"  Go  with  me  now,"  said  the  stranger,  bestowing  on 
him  a  very  pleasant  look.  "  Come  !  I  '11  take  care  of  you 
— better  care  than  you  get  now.  See  if  I  don't.  Come !" 

"  Where  ?"  asked  the  boy. 

His  mind  was  in  exactly  that  state  that  rendered  him 
susceptible  to  the  slightest  influences,  especially  if  they 
happened  to  be  in  his  favor,  and  at  all  soothing  to  his 
feelings. 

"  Oh,  away  from  here,  my  little  fellow,"  said  his  new 
friend,  gently  enticing  him  away  from  the  crowd. 

"  Away  from  Kit  ?  and  away  from  his  mother,  too  ?" 
asked  Gabriel. 

Yes,  he  should  certainly  have  an  asylum  far  beyond 
their  tyrannous  reach. 

And  so,  half  joyful  and  half  hesitating,  he  went  out 
through  the  door  of  the  pavilion,  leaving  the  remnant  of 
the  Nubbles  family  behind  him,  and  secretly  wishing  them 
ah1  "  good  riddance"  at  that. 

Around  the  outside  of  the  tent  this  man  carefully 
guided  him,  bidding  him  keep  close  at  his  heels,  and  not 
for  a  moment  to  lose  sight  of  him.  And  Gabriel  thought 
fully  did  as  he  was  requested. 

Pretty  soon  the  crowds  within  the  tent  began  to  move 
out.  They  poured  forth  in  black  masses  and  columns, 
so  that  one  who  looked  might  well  wonder  how  it  was 
the  tent  could  hold  them  ah1.  Here  and  there  over  the 


118  THE    TRAVELING    MENAGERIE. 

ground  they  began  to  scatter  themselves,  some  crowding 
around  the  gingerbread  and  oyster  stands,  and  there  dis 
cussing  in  loud  voices  the  character  and  worth  of  the 
amusement  for  which  they  had  parted  with  their  silver  ; 
some  strolling  about  with  scarce  any  purpose  at  all,  ex 
cept  simply  to  see  and  hear  what  was  going  forward  ;  and 
some  few  others — the  restless  and  turbulent  spirits  that 
always  gather  at  such  places — seeking  for  the  many 
slight  causes  that  might,  in  their  skillful  hands,  be  dis 
torted  into  either  a  private  fight  or  a  row  general. 

It  was  not  long,  either,  before  there  was  such  a  gather 
ing.  People  began  to  flock  to  the  spot  from  all  quarters, 
crowding  and  squeezing  their  way  among  those  who 
were  already  stationary  spectators.  And  Mr.  Nubbles, 
too — now  quite  alone  in  the  field — was  drawn  into  the 
circling  influence  of  the  excitement,  and  moved  along  in 
haste  with  the  rest. 

"A  fight!'  a  fight  T"  was  the  cry  that  saluted  him  on  all 
sides. 

"  Stand  back !     Fair  chance,  all !     Make  a  ring  !" 

"  Yes ;  give  'em  room !  Clear  the  ring  fur  'em  !"  Avere 
the  next  exciting  calls  he  caught. 

The  moment  Mr.  Nubbles  could  bring  his  eyes  into  a 
range  with  the  heads  of  the  combatants,  he  saw  that 
they  were  two  boys  ;  and  on  taking  the  trouble  to  pursue 
his  investigations  still  further,  he  made  the  unpleasant 
discovery  that  at  least  one  of  the  parties  in  action 
was  no  other  individual  than  his  own  beloved  son 
Christopher ! 

"Hit  him  agin !"— "  Chubb '11  git  licked  !"—"  Go  it, 
cotton-bug  !" — "  Hit  -a  leetle  lower,  Chubby !"  cried  the 
inside  of  the  ring. 

The  remainder  merely  huzzaed  and  clapped  their  hands 
as  the  fortunes  of  the  battle  vacillated  either  this  way  or 


THE    TRAVELING    MENAGEKIE.  119 

that ;  enjoying  it  with  as  hearty  a  relish  as  a  Spanish 
amphitheater  ever  enjoyed  an  imperial  bull-fight. 

There  was  Kit — the  petty  tyrant,  Kit — his  hair  all 
pulled  and  twisted  away — his  face  completely  streaked 
with  scratches  and  covered  with  blood — his  eyes  nearly 
shut  together  for  bruises — still  kicking,  and  biting,  and 
scratching,  and  fisting.  Alas !  alas !  for  his  home-made 
reputation — a  picture  of  woe  indeed !  • 

Mr.  Nubbles  could  not  stand  that.  He  jammed  his 
way  through  the  crowd  by  exertions  worthy  of  Hercules 
himself;  and,  pouncing  frantically  upon  his  only  child  and 
heir,  drew  him  by  main  force  out  of  the  circle,  amid  the 
cheers  and  jeers,  the  laughter  and  sneers  of  the  excited 
throng ! 

Kit  for  once  had  been  fortunate  enough  to  get  his 
share.  The  probability  was  that  he  would  return  home 
perfectly  satisfied  with  the  striking  lesson  he  had  that  day 
learned. 

But  Gabriel  ?— Gabriel  ? 

No ;  Mr.  Nubbles  could  find  him  nowhere  around ;  and 
in  the  midst  of  his  double  chagrin  he  started  sullenly  for 
Worry  witch  Hill  again,  one  half  mad  and  the  other  half 
tipsy,  \jnthout  him. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

TUB    BEAUTIFUL    MUTE. 

MARTHA  accosted  her  sister  one  pleasant  afternoon  and 
proposed  a  walk. 

"  Fudge  !"  said  Mary. 

"  But  you  will  feel  all  the  better  for  it !  It  will  do  you 
good.  Come ;  I  want  to  stroll  over  in  the  neighborhood 
of  the  village.  Why  will  you  not  go  with  me  ?" 

"  Oh,  but  this  country  life  is  so  insufferably  tedious.  I 
wish  I  was  back  in  town  again  !" 

"  But  that 's  foolish,  Mary.     You  know  it  is  !" 

"  Foolish  ?  Why  foolish,  pray  ?  Am  I  in  fault  for  my 
tastes?" 

"  No  ;  but  I  mean  that  when  we  are  so  circumstanced 
as  not  to  be  able  to  live  as  comfortably  and  as  happily  in 
town  as  here,  it  is  wrong  for  us  to  complain  of  our  life 
here.  Now  what  could  be  pleasanter  than  this  ?  Come, 
put  on  your  hat  and  come  along  with  me  !" 

Mary  hesitated.  "  Where  are  you  going  ?"  at  last 
asked  she. 

"  We  will  take  a  walk  through  the  village,  if  you  like." 

"  What !  and  be  stared  at  so  by  all  of  those  great 
green  men,  and  their  wives  and  children !  That 's  a 
pleasure — as  I  suppose  you  would  call  it — that  I  can't  en- 
dnre.  If  you  like  it,  at  least  I  must  say  that  I  don't !" 

"  Nonsense,  Mary.     You  can't  expect  to  get  through 


THE    BEAUTIFUL    MUTE.  121 

such  a  world  as  this  is  without  being  looked  at.  People 
will  be  at  the  pains  to  distinguish  you  from  me,  if  they 
can.  You  're  getting  too  sensitive,  I  fear." 

"  But  to  be  stared  at  till  you  feel  that  you  are  being 
fairly  perforated !" 

"  Oh,  well,  Mary,  that 's  only  a  whim.  These  people, 
some  of  them,  probably,  never  saw  such  as  we  are  before ; 
so  do  let 's  give  them  an  opportunity  to  gratify  their  curi 
osity.  And  it's  not  at  all  unlikely,  either,  that  we  may 
be  the  innocent  means — by  our  example,  for  instance — 
of  teaching  them  something.  Come,  Mary !  come,  now  !" 

"  If  I  go,  Martha,  you  must  understand  that  it  is  only 
for  your  sake." 

"Well,  I'll  take  it  so,  and  thank  you  for  it  accord 
ingly." 

The  sisters  therefore  were  soon  on  their  way  along  the 
winding  road  that  conducted  down  to  the  village  on  the 
plain  ;  and  Martha's  .tongue  was  going  faster  by  far  than 
her  feet.  There  was  not  a  single  scene  of  beauty  that  her 
quick  eye  did  not  detect ;  there  was  not  an  object  of 
natural  interest,  whether  tree,  or  rock,  or  shrub,  or  bird, 
that  she  did  not  stop  short  to  comment  upon  and  admire- 
Mary,  of  course,  thought  the  most  of  what  she  said  nothing 
but  sheer  nonsense,  and  affected  to  care  but  a  trifle  for  it. 

"  I  don't  see  any  particular  reason,"  said  she,  "  for  go 
ing  mad  over  the  view  of  such  a  rough  and  rocky  country 
as  this  is." 

"There!"  exclaimed  Martha;  "look  down  below  us 
now!" 

They  had  reached  the  place  on  the  hillside  from  which 
a  beautiful  view  was  to  be  had  of  the  entire  village.  Lap 
ped  in  the  circuit  of  the  quiet  plain,  it  seemed  to  be  sleep 
ing  in  the  embrace  of  the  loving  hills  around.  It  called 
up  in  the  mind  at  once  thoughts  of  retirement  from  the 


121  THE    BEAUTIFUL    MUTE. 

bustle  and  hurly-burly  of  crowds,  of  peace  from  the  daily 
strife  of  commercial  marts,  and  of  repose  from  all  the 
wearing  and  worrying  fatigues  of  busy  life.  Martha  felt 
her  soul  refreshed  with  so  delightful  a  view,  and  stood 
drinking  it  in  at  her  eyes.  Her  sister,  however,  was 
pledged  to  herself  to  be  dissatisfied  with  every  thing  she 
saw. 

"  If  you  call  this  as  pleasant  as street,  or  as  the 

Common,  then  I  must  say  you  have  very  queer  tastes  ; 
that  'fe  all." 

Descending  into  the  plain  at  length,  they  passed  slowly 
along  the  street  of  the  village,  on  either  side  of  which 
stood  white  and  brown  houses — some  close  together,  and 
some  at  irregular  distances  from  one  another — looking 
this  way  and  that,  and  remarking  on  what  they  saw  in 
the  same  spirit  with  which  each  had  set  out.  One  found 
pleasure  in  every  thing ;  the  other  decided  that  every 
thing  was  homely,  and  lonesome,  and  insufferable. 

After  walking  the  length  of  the  village  they  still  con 
tinued  their  way,  winding  a  little  to  the  left,  and  coming 
upon  one  of  the  sweetest  home-scenes  imaginable.  Martha 
proposed  stopping  to  get  some  water ;  and  as  her  sister 
offered  no  objections  to  sipping  a  gill  or  so  of  country 
water  herself,  they  went  into  the  yard. 

The  house  within  the  yard  was  only  a  wee  bit  of  a 
white-washed  cottage  but  a  single  story  high,  set  back 
some  distance  from  the  grassy  roadside,  and  more  .than 
half-hidden  behind  the  flowering  lilacs. 

"  Is  n't  this  beautiful  ?"  exclaimed  Martha. 

Mary  said  nothing,  though  she  must  herself  have 
thought  so,  too. 

The  very  smallest  patch  of  lawn  in  the  world  was 
stretched  from  the  door  to  the  road,  over  which  were 
rooted,  here  and  there,  shrubs  and  dwarf  trees,  that 


THE    BEAUTIFUL    MUTE.  128 

offered  to  the  passer,  in  hot  summer  weather,  a  couch  as 
inviting  as  green  grass  offered  any  where. 

"There!"  exclaimed  Mary,  in  a  whisper.  "There's 
some  one  in  the  yard.  Who  is  it  ?" 

Going  through  the  tiny  wicket,  they  came  quite  un 
expectedly  on  a  tall,  fair-faced  girl,  who  stood  picking  a 
handful  of  flowers  from  one  of  the  many  clumps  of  bushes. 
As  soon  as  she  chanced  to  turn  round  and  see  the  strang 
ers,  she  started,  and  involuntarily  put  up  both  hands. 

"  We  are  very  warm  and  tired,"  said  Martha  to  her, 
"  Can  you  give  us  a  glass  of  water  ?" 

The  girl  made  her  no  answer,  but  continued  looking 
straight  in  her  face.  Even  Mary  thought  she  had  never 
seen  so  beautiful  an  expression  on  a  human  face,  in  all  her 
life. 

"  We  will  thank  you  for  a  little  water,"  said  Martha 
again,  raising  her  voice. 

Still  no  answer,  and  still  the  girl  kept  gazing  at  her  in 
that  same  interesting  way. 

"  She  must  be  deaf,"  said  Mary,  in  a  low  voice. 

Martha  carne  nearer  still  to  her,  and  was  about  to 
speak  louder  yet.  But  the  girl,  seeing  what  she  would 
do,  and  now  for  the  first  time  breaking  away  from  the  in 
fluence  of  the  stranger's  eyes,  took  hold  gently  of  the 
hand  of  Martha  with  one  of  her  own,  while  she  carried 
the  other  to  her  mouth,  shaking  her  head  as  she  did  so 
with  a  mournful  smile. 

A  voice  was  heard  at-  that  instant  in  the  front  door, 
informing  them  that  the  girl  was  not  only  deaf,  but 
dumb  beside  !  The  sisters  looked  round  to  see  who  had 
spoken,  and  observed  a  middle-aged,  kind-looking  wo 
man  standing  before  them,  who  appeared  to  take  a  deep 
interest  in  the  happiness  of  the  mute,  though  neither  of 
them  suspected  her  of  being  her  mother. 


124  THE    BEAUTIFUL    MUTE. 

At  once  the  unfortunate  girl  led  Martha  to  the  woman, 
and  made  signs  to  her  that  no  one  but  themselves  could 
understand. 

"  We  would  like  some  cold  water,  if  you  please,"  said 
Martha. 

The  woman  asked  them  to  come  in,  and  promised  to 
wait  on  them  immediately.  So  they  followed  her  in ; 
and  while  they  waited  for  her  to  draw  the  water  freshly 
from  the  well  at  the  back  of  the  house,  their  eyes  were 
occupied  with  a  quick  survey  of  the  very  limited  premises. 

The  interior  of  this  petite  mansion  was  rather  a  curi 
osity,  than  otherwise.  Every  thing  had  been  constructed, 
and  every  thing  was  conducted  on  such  a  very  minute, 
but  pretty  scale.  It  looked  more  like  a  child's  playhouse 
than  any  thing  else  one  could  think  of,  with  the  same 
child's  broken  bits  of  crockery  and  jammed  tin- ware  ar 
ranged  in  obedience  to  the  trifling  fancies  of  youth,  ancJ 
all  the  furniture  made  in  perfect  adaptation  to  the  re 
quirements  of  such  a  miniature  household. 

Such  a  little  parlor!  the  like  was.  never  seen  before, 
even  in  such  a  nest  of  a  country  box!  And  such  low 
windows,  whose  panes  were  hardly  larger  than  the  bare 
palm  of  your  hand.  And  such  a  snug  little  entry,  into 
which  the  front-door  opened,  and  in  which  they  some 
times  sat  during  the  long  afternoon  of  summer,  when  the 
hot  sun  had  got  round  behind  the  house  and  the  trees ! 

The  fireplace  must  certainly  have  been  made  for  a  mere 
plaything,  too.  And  the  square  carpet  had  such  a  very 
queer,  but  very  neat  little  figure.  And  the  casements 
were  all  so  clean,  rubbed  and  scrubbed  until  they  glis 
tened  as  with  a  new  coat  of  varnish.  And  the  row  of 
smooth  sea-shells,  with  specked  backs  and  red  lips,  stood 
ranged  so  tastefully  on  the  little  mantle.  And  in  the 
summer-time,  too,  it  looked  so  cool  as  they  sat  there — 


THE    BEAUTIFUL    MUTE.  125 

that  mixed  bunch  of  asparagus  and  evergreens  stuck 
tidily  up  in  the  fireplace,  and  the  polished  hearth  washed 
so  scrupulously  clean!" 

This  woman,  as  it  seemed,  and  this  deaf  and  dumb  girl, 
were  the  only  inmates  of  the  dwelling.  The  name  of  the 
former — as  she  herself  narrated  it  to  the  girls — was  Mrs. 
Polly ;  and  the  girl  herself  was  called  Alice.  She  was 
the  only  sister  and  near  relative  of  the  same  Duncan  Mor 
row,  whose  first  experiments  in  town  life,  a  few  years  be 
fore,  the  reader  is  already  somewhat  acquainted  with. 

A  purer,  sweeter,  more  patient  and  true-hearted  girl 
than  Alice  Morrow,  could  nowhere  be  found.  United 
with  such  an  uncommonly  gentle  disposition,  too,  was  a 
person  of  almost  faultless  symmetry  and  of  surpassing 
beauty.  Pier  countenance  was  superlatively  lovely  ;  and 
her  smile  seemed  to  light  the  h'ttle  parlor  with  radiant 
sunshine.  But  it  was  chiefly  to  that  mute  look  of  inter 
ested,  yet  of  modest  inquisitiveness,  that  a  stranger  was 
generally  drawn  ;  as  if  she  silently  craved  your  sympa 
thies  for  her  isolated  condition,  and  at  the  same  moment 
asked  you  if  by  some  means  you  could  not  do  something 
to  relieve  her,  or  say  some  word  that  would  pierce  the 
gloom  of  her  entombed  existence.  Mutes  always  have 
highly  interesting  countenances,  for  the  invariable  ex 
pression  of  them  is  that  of  an  appeal  to  your  inmost  pity; 
and  Alice  was  nowise  an  exception  to  the  truth  of  the 
remark. 

There  was  no  one  that  knew  her — and  every  body 
thereabouts  did  know  her — that  did  not  secretly  love  her. ' 
Her  very  name  was  as  a  sweet  savor  to  the  simple-hearted 
people,  far  and  near.  If  people  ever  had  occasion  to 
speak  of  what  the  village  was,  or  of  what  it  contained,  or 
how  pleasant  and  agreeable  was  any  single  one  of  its  ac 
cessories,  Alice  Morrow — the  beautiful  mute — was  never 


126  THE    BEAUTIFUL    MUTE. 

forgotten.  They  spoke  of  her,  too,  with  almost  as  much 
pride  as  affection.  Humble  as  was  her  life  among  only 
humble  people,  it  was  perhaps  even  more  remarked  upon 
than  that  of  all  the  rest  of  them  together. 

Mrs.  Polly  was  a  woman  with  an  exceedingly  kind 
heart,  and  a  bosom  filled  with  charity  and  love.  In  her 
hands,  as  an  old  acquaintance  of  his  mother,  Duncan 
Morrow  had  placed  his  unfortunate  sister,  satisfied  that 
she  would  here  not  want  for  even  the  most  trifling  atten 
tion.  He  saved  regularly  a  certain  sum  of  money  each 
month  from  what  he  was  able  to  earn,  making  it  a  relig 
ious  duty  out  of  this  to  provide  for  her  as  long  as  she 
might  live.  A  courageous  brother,  and  as  generous  as 
courageous. 

If  the  reader  will  pardon  the  digression. — For  the  few 
years  that  the  devoted  brother  had  now  lived  away  from 
her  in  town,  he  had  remitted  her  with  strict  punctuality 
large  savings  from  his  salary.  First  securing  for  himself 
a  situation,  and  that,  too,  without  the  assistance  of  a 
single  human  being,  he  made  the  resolve  to  become  so 
useful  to  his  employers  that  they  should  feel  his  continu 
ance  with  them  an  absolute  necessity.  Then  he  went  on 
step  by  step,  slowly  but  surely,  earning  his  good  name  as 
he  advanced,  until  he  saw  that  his  end  had  finally  been 
accomplished,  and  that  he  had  become  a  fixture  in  the 
establishment. 

He  could  not  help  the  feeling  that  for  his  position  he 
owed  nothing  at  all  to  the  influence  of  his  uncle.  On  the 
contrary  he  was  very  certain  that  in  divers  ways  he  had 
frequently  run  against  the  direct-  efforts  of  that  same 
uncle,  who  had  exerted  himself  not  very  lovingly  to  blast 
the  young  man's  reputation  with  his  employers.  This 
was  all  done  indirectly,  to  be  sure  ;  but  it  troubled  Dun 
can  not  in  the  least ;  for  he  felt  the  assurance  that  with 


THE    BEAUTIFUL    MUTE.  127 

common  fortune,  he  would  be  able  in  good  time  to  de 
stroy  the.  bud  of  such  an  influence  altogether. 

Yet  the  very  nature  of  such  an  opposition  did  awaken 
him  to  a  new  and  more  thorough  study  of  that  uncle's 
character,  and  led  him  to  investigate  with  a  close  and 
watchful  scrutiny  the  probable  motive  that  lay  concealed 
beneath  his  conduct.  What  could  be  the  meaniilg  of 
this?  Why  should  a  man  reputedly  rich — like  Jacob 
Dollar — fear  for  a  single  moment  either  the  influence  or 
the  neighborhood  of  one  as  humble  as  himself?  Why 
this  hot  haste  to  procure  his  disgraceful  expulsion  from 
his  place,  after  it  had  been  secured  only  by  years  of  in 
tegrity  and  faithful  labor,  unless  for  the  reason  that  there 
was  some  ugly  secret  hidden  beneath,  that  the  rich  man 
feared  might  some  day  be  revealed  ? 

Might  not  this  be  the  real  fact  ? 

Duncan  kept  it  revolving  in  his  thoughts  nearly  all  the 
time. 

Many  and  many  an  evening  in  the  quiet  summer-time, 
would  Alice  and  her  protector  sit  at  the  door  of  their 
pretty  little  dwelling,  while  the  dim  shadows  were  group 
ing  slowly  on  the  lawn  and  beneath  the  distant  elms,  and 
recall  to  their  own  hearts  the  multiplied  sources  of  hap 
piness  that  lay  right  in  their  humble  path,  thinking  in  si 
lence  of  the  calm  lives  they  led  there  in  the  remote 
country,  that  seemed,  like  brooks,  to  swim  pleasantly 
through  scenes  of  sequestered  peace  and  beauty  ;  and  of 
the  friends  they  felt  were  every  where  around  them  ;  and 
of  the  absent  one  who  was  so  kind,  and  his  hopes  for  him 
self  in  the  undisclosed  future.  And  there  at  the  evening 
hour  they  felt  wholly  happy  in  the  peace  that  distilled 
like  the  dew  all  around  them. 

Sometimes  a  neighbor  passed,  coming  from  the  village, 
and  sometimes,  too,  Mrs.  Polly  would  receive  a  letter  for 


128  THE    BEAUTIFUL    MUTE. 

Alice  from  her  brother.  It  was  with  the  liveliest  joy 
that  she  broke  them  open,  while  her  fair  countenance,  al 
ternately  smiling  and  thoughtful,  always  expressed  the 
delightful  satisfaction  for  which — poor  girl! — she  could 
never  find  words. 

Among  her  more  recent  letters  from  him,  occurred  a 
paragraph  or  two  that  shall  excuse  itself  for  being  tran 
scribed  in  this  place : — 

"  I  am  comfortably  located  in  all  respects,  dear  Alice, 
and  have  many  valuable  friends.  Among  others — but 
you  shall  know  it  all  in  time.  Our  uncle  Jacob  I  hardly 
know  what  to  think  of.  lie  is  a  strange  and  unaccount 
able  man,  and  seems  to  grow  more  and  more  so  to  me 
daily.  But  what  he  can  mean  by  the  bold  interference 
in  my  affairs,  of  which  I  wrote  you  a  few  letters  ago, 
rather  surpasses  my  present  comprehension.  It  may  all 
come  out  to  the  light,  however,  in  time.  How  is  it  pos 
sible  for  him  to  fear  me  or  you  ?  Why  should  he  thus, 
of  his  own  choice,  place  himself  exactly  in  my  path,  and 
be  so  very  sure  to  injure  no  one  but  himself  in  the  end  ? 

"  Shall  I  confess  to  you  that  I  have  serious  suspicions 
both  of  his  honor  and  honesty?  Shall  I  tell  you  that  I 
think  I  have  already  made  discoveries  respecting  his  dis 
position  of  our  dear  mother's  little  property — though  so 
little,  yet  quite  enough,  dear  Alice,  to  make  you  comfort 
able,  that  will  blast  him  and  his  name  forever,  if  I  see  fit 
to  give  them  to  the  world  ?  And  just  so  surely  as  I  am 
interfered  with  in  the  manner  in  which  he  has  begun  with 
me,  I  shall  feel  it  my  duty  to  employ  even  extreme  meas 
ures,  to  repel  the  assaults  he  has  made  hi  secret  both  on 
me  and  my  character  !" 

A  scene  and  a  personage  like  this,  the  two  sisters  lin- 


THE    BEAUTIFUL    MUTE.  129 

gered  for  some  time  to  contemplate ;  while  good  Mrs. 
Polly,  after  putting  sundry  questions  in  relation  to  their 
new  mode  of  life,  and  their  like  and  dislike  of  the  coun 
try  in  general,  entertained  them  with  a  broken  narrative 
of  the  character  of  the  deaf  and  dumb  girl,  and  her  sev 
eral  sources  of  enjoyment. 

"  But  you  shall  certainly  come  over  with  her  to  our 
place !"  insisted  Martha  with  earnestness,  as  they  rose  to 
resume  their  walk.  "  We  have  been  so  agreeably  sur 
prised  in  coming  upon  you  here !" 

And  Mrs.  Polly  made  a  promise,  not  less,  for  herself 
than  on  behalf  of  her  young  friend,  and  the  promise  was 
of  a  character  very  likely,  as  things  go  in  rural  life,  to  be 
fulfilled. 

Alice  took  each  by  the  hand  as  they  left  her,  and  a 
heavenly  smile  irradiated  her  face  that  lived  for  days  in 
the  hearts  of  the  sisters. 

Perhaps  Mary  had  learned  a  gentle  lesson  of  true  con 
tentment  already — yes,  even  from  a  dumb  girl ! 


6* 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

A    WALK     ACKOSS    THE     COUNTRY. 

PROCEEDING  further  on,  they  came  at  length  to  a  roaji 
or  lane,  on  their  right  hand,  by  following  which  they 
would  succeed  in  reaching  home  again  by  a  circuitous 
route ;  Mary  hesitating  about  extending  their  walk  any 
more  than  was  necessary,  and  Martha,  as  ever,  pleading 
in  her  earnest  and  impulsive  way  for  any  course  that 
would  in  the  least  heap  new  views  of  nature  in  her  mem 
ory's  portfolio,  or  add  even  a  trifle  to  the  ardor  of  her 
enjoyment.  Mary  was  finally  over-persuaded  by  the  warm, 
appeals  of  her  sister,  as  indeed  she  said  she  always  was, 
and  consented  to  making  the  desired  detour. 

"  Now  don't  you  feel  abundantly  paid  for  coming  out 
this  afternoon  ?"  said  Martha.  "  What  a  surprise  it  was ! 
What  a  sweet  and  charming  creature  !  Did  you  ever  see 
such  a  heavenly  face,  Mary,  in  all  your  life  ?" 

"  Really  I  was  not  expecting  an  entertainment  of  just 
such  a  nature,"  said  her  sister.  "  Is  n't  it  an  odd  little 
box  of  a  house  ?" 

"  Just  the  one  I  have  many  and  many  a  time  pictured 
in  my  own  imagination — " 

"  I  warrant  you  !  I  warrant  you  !" 

" — As  the  spot  where  I  would  love  to  spend  my  days. 
Why,  such  a  nest  is  too  small  to  let  trouble  in !  There 
wouldn't  be  room  for  any  thing  more  than  ourselves, 


A    WALK    ACROSS    THE    COUNTRY.  131 

Mary  !  Did  you  ever  see  happiness  in  so  small  a  compass 
before?  Really  now,  without  any  denying  it,  wasn't 
you  envious  of  the  two  inmates  of  that  place,  all  the  time 
you  sat  there  ?  Did  n't  you  keep  saying  to  yourself, 
'  Oh,  if  I  could  but  own  such  a  spot  as  this  !'  Now  tell 
me  only  the  truth,  Mary  !" 

"  No ;  I  'm  sure  I  was  saying  to  myself  no  such  thing. 
I  thought  .it  all  very  pretty,  and  what  more  was  to  be 
thought  about  it  ?  Pray  don't  go  crazy  over  every  little 
specimen  of  rusticity  you  see,  Mai-tha!" 

"  Of  rurality,  you  had  better  have  said ;  I  like  that 
word  better.  No,  I  hardly  think  I  'm  going  out  of  my 
senses  yet,  Mary  ;  but  I  declare  I  never  felt  such  a  con 
tinual  excitement  on  me  all  the  while  I  lived  in  town. 
It 's  such  a  feeling  of  pleasure,  too.  It  does  n't  cloy  one 
as  the  scenes  of  city  life  too  often  do.  It 's  nature,  Mary, 
all  nature,  and  there 's  no  unhealthiness  in  that." 

"  Oh,  well ;  I  suppose  nature  is  all  well  enough  in  its 
place,  but  its  place  is  n't  every  where  !" 

"  No,  that  it  is  n't,  Mary.  You  '11  find  very  little  of  it 
in  town,  I  think ! — either  in  society  or  in  the  streets !" 

A  prattling  brook  crept  down  through  a  patch  of 
green  grass  in  the  meadow,  and  came  glistening  out 
from  beneath  the  old  stone  wall,  exactly  across  the  road. 
A  miniature  bridge  had  leaped  its  boundaries,  and  upon 
this  bridge  the  girls  instinctively  stopped  to  watch  the 
gui'gling  flow  of  the  water.  Its  bed  of  pebbles  was  worn 
smooth,  so  that  the  pavement  shone  and  glistened  beneath 
the  blotches  of  the  changing  shadows  till  it  looked  like 
a  beautiful  mosaic.  Martha  only  wished  to  take  off"  her 
shoes  and  stockings  and  walk  with  her  bare  feet  through 
the  dimpling  current. 

"Now,  do  be  as  foolish  as  you  can,"  protested  her 
companion.  "  I  declare,  I  begin  to  think  you  are  quite 


132  A    WALK    ACROSS    THE    COUNTRY. 

beside  yourself.  Always  wanting  to  do  what  no  person 
in  their  senses  would  ever  dream  of!" 

"  Why,  Mary,  you  're  much  too  censorious.  Just  look 
here  a  moment.  Did  you  never  read  in  poetry  of  just 
such  pictures  as  those  made  by  the  white  feet  of  girls  on 
beds  of  smooth  brook-pebbles,  and  the  limpid  water  run 
ning  over  them  ?  Don't  you  remember — " 

"Don't  I  remember?  Fudge,  Martha!  Fudge,  I 
say !  Don't  go  to  trying  now  to  be  poetic  in  such  a 
place  as  this !" 

"In  such  a  place  as  this?  Why,  any  one  would  be 
likely  to  think  this  was  just  the  place !  Here  is  this  most 
charming  little  brook;  here  is  this  rustic  bridge,  over 
whose  old  rail  you  can  lean  and  almost  see  your  face  in 
the  running  water :  what  more  could  one  wish,  Mary  ?" 

"  You  're  much  too  sentimental  for  my  taste.  I  aim  to 
be  practical.  And  besides,  I  can't  see  much  hereabouts 
that  is  any  thing  but  the  sternest  sort  of  reality.  Where 's 
the  sentiment  that  you  find  in  these  old  country  walls  ? 
or  in  this  narrow  road,  all  dust'and  dirt — " 

"  And  grass  !"  interrupted  Martha. 

" — Or  in  these  whining  little  water-gullies  that  go 
washing  the  dirt  before  them  through  every  place  where 
a  free  passage  is  allowed  them  ?" 

"  There  is  sentiment,  Mary,  in  pavements ;  and  in 
walls  of  brick;  and  straight  rows  of  straight  houses;  and 
stacks  of  crowded  chimneys !  There  is  some  sort  of  sen 
timent  in  these,  Mary — eh  ?  Oh,  Mary !  what  a  per 
verted  taste  you  've  got !  Don't  you  know  that  it 's  old 
Dame  Nature  that 's  the  mother  not  only  of  every  living 
object,  but  of  ourselves  besides  ?  Don't  you  know  that 
she  supplies  us,  and  always  has  supplied  us,  with  the  very 
alphabet  of  our  feelings  ?  That  from  her  we  learn  all  our 
language  in  which  we  express  our  feelings  and  thoughts  ? 


A    WALK    ACROSS    THE    COUNTRY.  133 

Fie,  Mary!  What  a  perverse  sister  I  have  got,  sure 
enough !" 

To  what  extent  this  sisterly  dispute  might  have  been 
carried  it  can  not  be  presumed  to  be  knoAvn,  had  not  the 
attention  of  the  elder  of  the  two  been  unexpectedly  di 
rected  to  a  man  in  the  distance,  who  had  just  climbed 
over  the  wall,  and  was  now  gazing  at  them  as  if  he 
hardly  knew  what  he  was  about. 

"  There !"  exclaimed  Mary,  seizing  her  sister  by  the 
arm ;  "  who  's  that  ?" 

Martha  looked  at  the  person,  and  immediately  her  face 
colored  deeply,  "  Why,"  said  she,  "  it 's  Mr.  Holliday !" 

"  Sure  enough !  But  see,  Mat,  he  'd  like  to  get  back 
over  that  wall  again,  if  he  could,  and  hide  himself  in  the 
bushes ;  or  perhaps  he  's  thinking  that  he  could  run 
straight  home,  and  not  be  seen  by  us  at  all." 

Martha  was  still  more  confused,  and  the  feeling  was 
not  at  all  allayed  by  the  consciousness  that  her  face  was 
burning  like  a  fire. 

Mr.  Holliday,  who  had  at  first  sat  perched  on  the  top 
of  the  wall  as  in  the ,  act  of  getting  over,  proceeded  to 
jump  to  the  ground  as  he  saw  and  recognized  the  girls, 
and  to  be  all  ready  to  offer  them  a  cordial  greeting  when 
they  came  up.  He  expressed  no  little  surprise  at  meeting 
them  on  so  long  and  lonely  a  walk — though  he  would 
think  it  any  thing  but  lonely  for  himself — and  put  them 
several  earnest  inquiries  respecting  their  opinion  of  the 
neighborhood. 

The  youthful  author  himself  was  dressed  in  a  highly  pic 
turesque  style,  and  the  admiration  of  both  the  girls  was 
at  once  enlisted.  He  had  been  out  nearly  all  day  on  a 
fishing  excursion,  whipping  the  brooks  for  trout.  Accord 
ingly  he  wore  a  suit  adapted  to  his  rustic  vocation,  made 
of  some  coarse  and  durable  stuff,  with  long  boots  drawn 


134  A    WALK    ACKOSS    THE    COUNTRY. 

high  from  his  feet,  and  a  cap  of  dark  gray  upon  his  head. 
In  his  hand  he  carried  his  unjointed  rod,  which  he  had 
laced  together  again  for  convenience'  sake,  and  over  his 
left  shoulder  was  thrown  the  wicker  creel  that  held  his 
spoils  of  the  day. 

Martha,  of  course,  wanted  to  know  what  success  he 
had  had,  whether  her  sister  cared  any  thing  about  it  or 
not.  So  he  flung  off  the  strap  from  his  shoulder  and 
opened  the  basket.  Two  pair  of  bright  eyes  were  looking 
intently  within  at  the  same  moment.  Where  the  young 
man's  eyes  were  I  need  not  pretend  to  say. 

In  a  bed  of  long  green  grass,  still  shining  and  wet,  lay 
nestled  a  handful  of  plump  and  glossy  fish,  that  looked  so 
inviting,  Martha  must  needs  pull  one  out  of  the  basket. 
The  moist  grass  had  been  sprinkled  over  and  under  them 
to  keep  them  perfectly  fresh  and  full ;  and  as  the  girl 
drew  out  only  a  single  one,  Mr.  Holliday  fished  nearly  all 
the  rest  up  from  the  very  bottom,  and  spread  them  out 
upon  the  border  of  grass  at  their  feet. 

How  beautifully  they  looked  there  against  the  deep 
green  of  the  grass,  themselves  all  spotted  with  gold,  and 
decked  with  broad  iridescent  streaks  and  changing  hues 
of  violet  and  purple!  "Speckled  beauties,"  Martha 
called  them  at  once ;  and  the  fisherman  assured  her 
that  that  was  the  pet  name  they  sometimes  went  by 
among  the  lovers  of  the  angle.  Their  forms  were  fault 
less  ;  and  the  absence  of  rough  scales  on  them,  and  the 
substitution  for  them  of  these  beautiful  spots  of  purple 
and  gold,  made  the  finny  creatures  as  tempting  to  their 
eyes  as  they  are  every  where  known  to  be  to  the  palate. 

"  These  all  came  from  up  the  meadows,"  said  the  young 
man.  "Fknow  nearly  all  their  haunts  and  holes,  I  be 
lieve — at  least  on  this  brook,  and  ah1  I  have  to  do  is  tc 
catch  them  ;  that  is,  if  I  can  !" 


A    WALK    ACROSS    THE    COUNTRY.  135 

Martha  thought  it  must  be  a  most  delightful  recreation. 

"  Ah,  Miss  Rivers,  it  really  is  !  To  a  tired  man  whose 
brain  gets  overtaxed,  and  whose  nerves  are  quite  unstrung, 
there  is  nothing  in  the  world  like  it ;  unless  it  is  riding  on 
horseback,  and  that  you  know,  one  can  not  follow  as  long 
at  a  time  as  he  can  fishing.  I  sometimes  tell  people,  who 
fancy  they  see  no  great  profit  in  the  occupation,  that  I 
don't  follow  the  brook  for  fish  altogether ;  half  my  divi 
dend  I  take  out  in  the  form  of  healthy  excitement  and 
downright  enjoyment.  The  fish  are  not  muchj,  and  one 
can  catch  but  a  very  few  of  them  at  best ;  but  it  'a  the 
sweet  scenery  through  the  heart  of  which  the  employ 
ment  entices  you,  and  the  many  fine  bits  of  landscape 
your  eye  takes  in,  and  the  gushing  songs  of  the  birds  in 
the  jungles  of  birch  and  hazel.  That's  what  throws 
around  this  sport  such  a  charm." 

"  So  it  must,"  enthusiastically  assented  Martha.  "  Oh, 
I  wish  I  could  but  go  a-fishing  myself!" 

"  Why,  Martha  !"  exclaimed  her  sister. 

"Yes,  go  a-fishing  myself!"  repeated  she,  still  more 
emphatically.  "  Don't  you  wish  you  could  go  ?  What 
sport  there  must  be  in  it !" 

"  You  're  simply  an  enthusiast,"  chided  Mary. 

"  And  that 's  simply  what  all  true  and  devoted  fisher 
men  are,"  returned  Mr.  Holliday  ;  "  at  least  I  sp'eak  only 
of  those  who  haunt  brooks  and  lonely  solitudes.  Why, 
Miss  Rivers,  did  you  ever  see  a  trout  jump — one  of  those 
great  fat  fellows  such  as  lie  at  your  feet  ?" 

Mary -was  obliged  to  confess  that  she  never  did. 

"  Ah !  then  you  know  nothing  what  the  excitement  is ! 
It  is  enough  to  make  one's  heart  flutter  in  his  very 
mouth.  Even  the  oldest  brethren  in  the  pursuit  never 
get  wholly  over  the  strangely  electrical  feeling.  The  fish 
is  a  wary  creature,  you  know,  and  will  not  touch  your 


136  A    Vf  &.LK    ACROSS    THE    COUNTRY. 

lure  if  he  happens  to  see  you  ;  so  that  if  you  take  him  at 
all,  it  is  to  be  done  by  pure  skill.  These  big  fellows,  now, 
reason  exactly  as  we  reason.  If  they  have  the  least  cause 
to  suspect  that  some  snare  is  set  for  them,  or  that  danger 
is  somehow  connected  with  the  little  false  fly  that  pretends 
to  swim  so  daintily  over  their  heads,  they  just  wriggle 
their  fins  a  trifle,  and  quietly  decline  the  bribe.  But  if 
they  are  blind  to  danger,  the  moment  they  spy  the  float 
they  dart  with  the  velocity  of  thought  straight  upon  it — 
sometimes^jumping  clear  out  of  the  water  in  their  greedy 
haste ;  and  that  is  the  time  when  the  angler's  heart 
jumps  up,  too!" 

Mr.  Holliday  began  to  gather  his  fish  and  deposit  them 
•  in  his  little  creel  again,  strewing  the  grass  over  them  as 
he  had  done  before ;  and  shutting  down  the  cover  tightly, 
offered  his  escort  to  the  girls  as  far  as  they  were  going. 
Glad  to  accept  it,  they  walked  on  in  company,  renewing 
the  subject  of  following  brooks  for  recreation. 

"I  was  going  to  add,"  observed  the  author-angler, 
"  that  none  but  those  who  are  wedded  to  this  most 
quiet  and  reflective  pursuit  know  a  fraction  of  its  pleas 
ant  temptations.  The  sudden  surprises  you  experience, 
on  coming  unexpectedly  out  of  a  boggy  shade  into  a 
little  amphitheater  of  natural  beauty,  or  on  being  seduced 
insensibly  almost,  into  the  dreamiest  nooks  it  is  possible  to 
conceive  of,  or  climbing  a  knoll,  and  finding  stretched 
just  below  you  a  pool  of  water  whose  still  surface  is 
blotched  all  over  with  white  and  yellow  lilies,  unfoldod 
gaudily  to  the  sun — nobody  can  know  the  worth  of  them 
to  a  sensitive  and  sympathetic  heart,  unless  he  has  enjoyed 
them  again  and  again  for  himself.  It  is  at  these  times 
and  in  these  places  that  the  blaze  of  worldly  ambition  dies 
down  in  the  breast,  and  the  feelings  warm  with  a  more 
gentle  and  genial  heat.  These  are  the  times  when  real 


A  WALK  ACROSS  THE  COUNTRY.     137 

love  of  all  mankind  spreads  in  the  heart,  as  the  circles 
themselves  spread  in  the  water." 

"  Martha  is  such  a  great  admirer  of  nature,"  said  her 
sister,  "  that  I  think  she  must  appreciate  all  this  most 
highly.  Indeed,  I  know  she  is  enjoying  it." 

"  B.ut  are  not  you  a  lover  of  nature  also  ?"  he  asked, 
not  a  little  surprised  to  hear  her  express  herself  just  in 
this  way. 

"  Well,  if  you  call  this  nature — no,  sir ;  I  should  say  I 
was  n't."  „ 

"  She  likes  it  rather  in  bits — in  small  parcels,"  suggest 
ed  Martha. 

"  As  I  think,  and  as  my  own  nature  is  constituted,  I 
am  free  to  declare  to  every  body  that  nature  is  the  very 
best  friend  I  have,  or  ever  expect  to  have.  She  has 
taught  me  truths  that  I  could  hardly  have  learned  else 
where.  She  has  been  my  mother,  my  sister,  and  my 
brother.  I  feel  that  she  has  the  deepest  possible  sym 
pathy  with  my  heart — all  the  deeper  and  closer  for  being 
silent  and  unspoken.  Like  a  little  child  I  lay  my  head 
upon  her  breast,  and  at  once  my  soul  becomes  calm  and 
strong.  Is  there  another  source  of  such  a  universal  sym 
pathy  any  where  in  the  world  ?" 

"  I  thought,"  observed  Mai'tha,  "  that  I  knew  some 
thing  of  what  this  passion  was  before  we  came  out  here 
into  this  quiet;  but  I  find  I  did  not.  My  sentiments 
have  had  a  good  education  ever  since  I  have  been  here." 

Already  they  had  come  in  sight  of  the  little  hpuse  of 
Mr.  Holliday,  and  he  moved  to  turn  down  into  the  lane 
that  led  along  to  it.  He  wished  them  a  safe  return  home 
again,  and  thanked  them  earnestly  for  their  invitation  to 
call  at  their  cottage  as  soon  as  agreeable. 

"  Quite  a  pleasant  afternoon,  Mary,  take  it  all  together," 
said  Martha.  "  Don't  you  think  so  ?" 


138  A    WALK    ACROSS    THE    COUNTRY. 

"  Oh,  yes ;  I  have  enjoyed  myself  very  well." 

"  Better  than  you  expected,  even  ?" 

"  Well,  perhaps  I  have.  I  often  do.  That 's  not  at  all 
strange,  is  it  ?" 

"  I  thought  it  more  so  than  I  should  have  thought  it  in 
the  city.  You  are  doing  very  well,  sister,  I  must  confess. 
Let  me  praise  you." 

When  they  approached  their  own  home  there  was  that 
in  its  appearance — there  was  that  air  of  quiet  and  comfort 
around  it  that  made  the  hearts  of  both  the  girls  grateful 
indeed.  It  was  a  feeling  they  had  not  exactly  experienced 
before  since  their  removal  hither ;  and  it  stole  over  them 
so  gently,  yet  so  suddenly,  they  quite  forgot  the  change 
in  their  situation,  in  the  secret  joy  of  the  moment. 

Of  course  a  great  deal  had  to  be  told  over  at  the  tea- 
table  of  the  experiences  of  the  afternoon,  and  all  joined  in 
the  conversation  together.  The  touching  story  of  the 
deaf  and  dumb  girl  enlisted  the  sympathies  of  the  parents 
immediately ;  and  they  hoped  to  see  her  there  at  their 
house  themselves.  Both  Mr.  Rivers  and  his  wife  were 
more  and  more  pleased  with  such  accounts  of  Mr.  Holli- 
day  as  were  brought  them,  especially  by  Martha ;  and  in 
his  society,  despite  the  difference  in  their  years,  Mr. 
Rivers  promised  himself  a  great  deal  of  refined  enjoyment 
in  the  future. 

Their  good  opinion  was  heightened  not  a  little  as  in  the 
course  of  the  evening  a  girl  handed  in  at  their  kitchen  a 
platter,  on  which  lay  stretched  four  as,  fat  and  luscious 
trout  as  ever  paddled  a  fin  or  leaped  out  of  the  water  at 
a  fly.  The  house  was  filled  with  nothing  but  exclama 
tions  and  thanks. 


CHAPTER  XIT. 

AFTER,      THE      FEAST 

AFTER  every  feast  comes  a  reckoning.  Pleasure  alone 
soon  cloys,  and  then  follows  the  reaction  of  sickness  and 
repentance.  It  was  not  less  true  in  the  case  of  Mr. 
Nahum  Nubbles,  than  it  is  in  that  of  other  people  at 
large. 

As  soon,  therefore,  as  he  arrived  home  that  night,  after 
his  long  day  of  sight-seeing  at  the  menagerie,  it  was  quite 
dusky  and  he  was  quite  tipsy ;  so  much  so,  that,  with  not 
the  most  distant  intention  or  desire  of  slandering  that 
worthy  individual,  he  discovered  that  it  commanded  all 
the  remaining  resources  of  his  genius  to  keep  himself  on 
his  seat.  Kit,  the  never-to-be-forgotten  Kit,  sat  jammed 
up  in  one  corner  much  as  usual,  bruised,  punched  and 
thoroughly  sore.  As  the  wagon  jolted  under  his  father's 
rather  unsteady  driving,  he  inwardly  bewailed  his  luck, 
and  outwardly  bemoaned  his  suiferings. 

"  O — o — oh !"  cried  he  often,  in  a  minimum  sort  of 
tone. 

• 

"  "VVh's  matter,  Kit  ?"  his  father  would  ask,  with  that 
slippery  way  of  the  lip  that  men  in  his  situation  very 
frequently  employ.  "  Wh's  matter  ?" 

"  O — o — !"  was  all  the  youth  would  reply  again. 

Reaching  Worrywitch  Hill,  the  two,  who  were  left  of 
the  party,  drew  up  at  the  barn  door,  and  there  for  a  few 
moments  stood  together. 


140  AFTER    THE    FEAST. 

"  Wait  for  me,  Kit !"  called  Mr.  Nubbles  on  his  son,  not 
wanting  overmuch  to  enter  the  forbidding  presence  of 
his  spouse  alone.  So  the  young  gentleman  did  wait,  pass 
ing  the  time  in  groaning  and  grunting  among  the  vari 
ous  articles  of  trumpery  within  the  shed.  How  Mr.  Nub 
bles  put  up  his  horse  that  night,  he  had  not  the  remotest 
recollection ;  and  it  is  not  probable  that  he  ever  had  after 
ward. 

When,  after  all,  the  father  and  his  son  did  reach  the 
kitchen  door,  they  found  the  lady  of  the  house  altogether 
prepared  to  receive  them.  "  Well !"  said  she,  quite  short 
and  briskly. 

"Yis!"  returned  her  husband. 

She  stood  and  looked  at  him  only,  without  a  word. 

"  Yis,  yis ;  'ee  got  home  'gin !"  said  he,  thinking  to 
conciliate  the  temper  of  his  wife  with  the  blandest  and 
most  seductive  tone  at  his  command. 

"  Got  home  'gin  !"  she  cruelly  mimicked  him  ;  "  I  sh'd 
think  you  had  !  Sure  enough !  But  where 's  Gabriel  ?" 

She  put  the  inquiry  in  a  tone  that  certainly  betokened 
a  little  fear  of  his  loss,  much  as  she  had  pretended  a  desire 
be  rid  of  him. 

"  Ware 's  hoo  ?"  asked  he,  in  return,  striking  an  atti 
tude  that  would  allow  him  to  bring  his  own  eyes  into 
something  like  a  range  with  those  of  his  wife. 

"  Gabriel,  you  ninny  !     The  boy  !" 

"I  ha'n't  seen  no  boy,"  said  he,  dropping  his  eyes 
thoughtfully  to  the  ground. 

"The  boy  you  took  off  with  you  this  morning!"  she 
returned,  elevating  her  voice  still  more.  "  Where  is 
he?" 

"Ware's  the— th'  boy?  Eh?"  Ware  is  he?  W'y, 
here  he  is,  ooman !"  and  he  clapped  both  hands  heavily 
upon  the  back  and  shoulders  of  his  own  endeared  son. 


AFTER    THE    FEAST.  141 

"  O — o — oh !"  shouted  Kit,  moving  briskly  out  of  his 
reach,  and  sitting  down  in  the  first  chair  at  hand.  "  Thun 
der  'n  lightnin' !" 

"Kit,  where's  Gabriel?"  she  inquired  of  her  son. 
"  What 's  got  him !" 

"  More  'n  I  can  tell  ye,"  he  answered,  very  sullenly. 
"  What 's  more,  'n  I  don't  care !" 

"  Good,  Kit !"  cried  out  his  father,  just  setting  foot 
with  all  possible  considerateness  across  the  threshold. 
"  Hoor-raw  for  you,  Kit !  Who  does  care  for  that  little 
Satan,  I'd  like  to  know?  All  he's' good  for,  is  jest  for 
your  mother  to  haul  'n  maul  round ;  'n  I  guess  she 's 
had  her  shear  o'  doin'  that,  for  this  year  any  way !" 

"  Tell  me  this  minnit,  Nahum  Nubbles,"  screamed  his 
infuriated  wife,  "what  have  you  done  with  that  boy! 
Here  he  was  bound  out  to  us  reg'lar  as  could  be,  right 
from  the  poor-house  ;  an'  ef  he  'd  but  been  allowed  to  git 
his  growth,  an'  'd  been  fed  enough  to  do  it,  he  might  ha' 
got  to  be  useful  to  somebody!  What  hev'  ye  done 
with  him  now  ?  I  '11  find  out,  depend  upon 't,  ef  it  costs 
me — ." 

"  Oh,  wal,"  said  he,  "  when  you  do,  Mis'  Nubbles,  jes' 
— jes'  le'  me  know,  will  ye  ?"  f  r  I  've  got  some  lettle 
curiosity  myself  about  it !"  and  his  eyes  rolled,  and  leered, 
and  twinkled  in  all  sorts  of  ways,  in  his  head. 

"  Did  you  leave  him,  Kit  ?"  she  asked  her  sou,  thinking 
to  have  better  success  in  questioning  him. 

"I  s'pose  so,"  said  he.  "Don't  know  nothin'  about 
him  !  Don't  care  !" 

"  Did  he  run  away  ?"  she  persevered. 

"  I  hope  he  did  !  I  never  want  to  see  him  agin — I 
don't ! — little,  good-for-nothing,  ugly  pauper  !" 

"  This  is  a  pretty  kittle  o'  fish,  now  !"  she  bawled  out, 
just  as  her  lord  and  master  succeeded  in  seating  him- 


142  AFTER    THE    FEAST. 

self  quite  emphatically  in  one  of  the  hard  wooden  chairs. 
"Pretty  doin's,  I  sh'd  think!" 

"  Gr — g — guess  you  would  think  so,"  said  Mr.  Nubbles, 
"'f — 'f-  you'd  seen  what  I  hev' !  Folks 't  stay  to  home 
ain't  apt  to  see  every  thing  ;  be  they,  Kit  ?  eh,  Kit  ?" 

"O— o— oh!"  grunted  he.  "Don't  know!  Don't 
care !" 

At  this  juncture,  for  the  first  time  since  his  coming  in, 
the  flaring  light  from  the  tallow  dip  she  carried  in  her 
hand  fell  full  on  the  face  of  her  illustrious,  but  ill-used 
son.  She  started  with  the  terror  so  unwelcome  a  sight 
gave  her  maternal  heart. 

"Why,  Chris-to-pher  Nubbles!"  she  slowly  exclaimed, 
in  a  higher  key  than  any  she  had  yet  attempted. 
"  What 's  the  matter  ?  What  on  earth  's  the  matter  !" 

"  Ooh  !"  he  returned  sharply,  as  if  a  sudden  pain  had 
twinged  him  somewhere. 

"  Tell  me  this  minnit,  Christopher !  What  hev'  ye 
been  doin'  of  to-day,  that 's  scratched  an'  gouged  your 
face,  so  ?  Christopher  Nubbles — if  I  ev-er !  Of  all 
things  in  this  mortal  world !  How  d'  ye  do  it,  Chris 
topher  ?" 

"Fight'n',"  answered  his  father  for  him,  very  lacon 
ically. 

"  Wai,  I  sh'd  think  it  was  a  fight'n' !  Now  you  shall 
jest  tell  me  every  single  syllable  about  it  all,  exactly  as  it 
happened !  Do  you  hear,  Kit !  Tell  me  the  whole  on  't, 
this  very  minnit !" 

"  Oh,  thunder  !"  groaned  he  with  pain.  O — o — oh !" 
and  he  brought  down  his  foot  on  the  floor  in  a  paroxysm 
of  mixed  raged  and  suffering. 

"  Yis,  you  'd  better  tell  her  all  about  it,  Kit,"  suggest 
ed  his  father.  But  still  the  youth  made  no  reply,  mani 
festly  lacking  the  inclination. 


AFTER    THE    FEAST.  143 

"If  I  ever!"  exclaimed  his  mother  again. 

"  'R — 'r — 'r  I  either  !"  Mr.  Nubbles  managed  to  gee 
out. 

"  Who  did  it  now,  Nahum  ?  I  want  to  know  if  you 
stood  by  an'  see  your  own  son  mauled  an'  hammered  in 
that  sort  o'  way !  Who  did  it,  I  say  ?" 

"  He  got  to  fight'n'  with  another  boy,"  said  Mr.  Nub 
bles,  rather  softly. 

*  Got  to  fight'n'  with  another  boy  ?  But  where  was 
you  all  this  time  ?  Where  was  his  own  father,  that  took 
him  away  from  home  to  git  all  mauled  up  so  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  was  'round,  I  s'pose,"  said  he. 

"  'Round,  was  ye  ?  Wai,  and  had  n't  you  a  good  deal 
better  ha'  been  where  you  could  have  helped  Christ 
opher  out  of  a  scrape  when  he  got  imposed  upon  by  them 
that 's  bigger  than  himself?  Mr.  Nubbles,  I  do  declare, 
of  all  the  men  I  ever  did  see,  I  think  you  're  jest  the 
meanest — yis,  the  very  meanest !" 

"  'Nough  said,  then,"  remarked  he,  in  his  same  quiet 
and  submissive  tone.  "  I  've  got  your  'pinion,  hain't  I  ?" 

"  You  're  nothin'  better  than  a  coward,  Nahum  Nub 
bles  !  a  spalpeen !  a  white-livered,  chicken-hearted,  lazy, 
good-for-nothin'  fool !  That 's  what  you  are — a  perfect 
fool !" 

"  Good  !"  he  interrupted.  "  I  rather  like  that,  now ;  I 
feel  as  if  I  could  understand  ye." 

"  To  stand  by  an'  see  your  own  child,  and  my  own 
child,  too,  abused  in  this  kind  o'  way ! — torn  lim'  from 
lira.'  almost ! — spit  on,  all  over ! — pounded  an'  scratched  ! 
— his  eyes  drove  clear  in,  so  't  I  should  n't  wonder  a  mite 
if  he  never  sh'd  see  agin  's  long 's  he  lived ! — Christopher, 
can  you  see  this  candle  I  've  got  in  my  hand  ?" 

But  Kit  answered  her  nothing. 

"Now  jest  look  o'  that  boy,  will  ye?     Did  ever  any 


144  AFTER    THE    FEAST. 

body  see  such  a  sight  ?  It 's  perfectly  awful  ?  Did  ever 
a  man — yis,  a  full-grown,  able-bodied  man — bring  home 
a  son  to  his  mother  in  sich  an  orful  looking  plight  as  this 
is  ?  Oh,  I  wish  I  was  only  a  man  myself!  You  may  be 
pretty  sure  I  'd  be  apt  to  make  fur  fly  where  some  folks 
now  only  smooth  it  down  with  their  hands !  If  I  was 
only  a  man !" 

"  Wish  you  was,"  answered  he,  "  f 'm  bottom  my  soul !" 

"  Wish  I  was,  do  ye  ?  Wai,  let  me  tell  you  what 's  the 
fust  thing  I  'd  do  :  I  'd  take  you  in  hand  right  off!  I  'd 
learn  you  that  your  own  child  was  n't  to  be  abused  an* 
tore  to  pieces  in  this  'ere  dreadful,  shameful,  wicked  kind 
of  a  way,  and  you  a-lookin'  on  like  a  coward,  as  you  are, 
and  a-seein'  of  it  done !  That 's  what  I  'd  learn  ye !  Now 
do  you  know  ?" 

"  You  're  a-layin'  out  a  good  patch  o'  ground  to  work 
over,"  he  suggested. 

"  You  'd  know  more  the  next  twenty-four  hours,"  she 
went  on,  "  than  you  ever  knew  in  any  twenty-four  hours 
in  all  your  life !  I  'd  beat  it  into  you  if  you  could  n't 
learn  it  no  other  way !  I  'd  either  make  something  of 
you  tfr  else  nothing  at  all !" 

"  Una !"  said  he,  "  I  did  git  Christopher  out  o'  the 
scrape,  as  he  knows  himself.  So  what  're  you  jawin'  to 
me  about  it  for  ?  If  I  had  n't  ha'  done  it,  most  likely  he  'd 
been  smashed  all  into  a  pummice  by  this  time !  I  drag 
ged  him  right  out  o'  the  ring,  by  grashus,  b'  th'  hair  o' 
his  head !" 

"  You  did,  you  brute,  you  ?     You  did  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  did,  'n  that 's  a  fact,  too.  Could  n't  git  him 
out  no  other  way.  He  'd  been  killed  dead  in  a  minnit 
more  !  I  saved  his  life — -just  saved  it,  an'  that 's  all !" 

"  You  saved  his  life !  More  like  you  did  him  more 
hurt  'n  good,  by  a  long  sight.  You  saved  his  life,  with 


AFTER    THE    FEAST.  145 

your  rough  old  hands  in  his  hair — you  brute,  you!  I 
don't  b'lieve  he  '11  ever  git  over  it  as  long  's  he  lives ! 
No,  I  don't !  I  don't  see  how  it 's  any  ways  possible  ! 
Oh,  I  only  wish  't  was  you,  you  fool !" 

"  Hi,  old  'ooman.     Don't  ye,  though  ?" 

"  Yis,  indeed,  that 's  what  I'do  from  the  bottom  of  my 
heart !  And  if  nobody  was  by  to  see  it,  I  'd  fall  afoul  of 
you  as  you  was  never  fell  afoul  of  yit  by  man,  woman,  or 
child  !  I  'd  shut  up  your  eyes  for  you  jest  as  his  are  shut 
up !  and  jam  your  old  cheeks — what  there-is  left  of 'em — 
into  a  reg'lar  heap !  and  make  you  grunt  a  great  deal 
worse  than  he  does  this  minnit !  Oh,  you  great  fool ! . 
lost  your  bound-out  boy  ;  let  your  own  son  git  half  killed 
by  another  man's  boy  ;  and  come  home  drunk  as  a  beast 
besides !  Oh,  I  wish  for  all  the  world  't  I  was  only  a 
man !" 

And  upon  .this  the  wolfish  mother  set  about  reducing 
the  hideous  swellings  that  so  disfigured  the  countenance 
of  her  son  and  heir ;  while  Mr.  Nubbles  retired  stealthily 
to  his  well-known  apartment  to  solace  himself  yet  once 
more  with  the  virtues  that  lie  lurking  in  Jamaica  rum, 
brown  sugar,  and  a  very — very  little  water. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

GABRIEL     AND     HIS     FRIENDS. 

WITH  some,  whether  in  town  or  out  of  town  makes  all 
the  difference  in  the  world.  It  was  scarcely  a  smaller 
event  in  the  existence  of  little  Gabriel  to  have  passed  so 
unexpectedly  from  his  quiet  and  monotonous  life  at  Mr. 
Nubbles's  in  Worrywitch  Hill  into  the  heart  of  scenes  to 
which  he  was  now  introduced. 

I  have  no  wish  to  detain  my  reader  a  moment  even  in 
rehearsing  the  divers  stages  of  the  boy's  progress  from 
the  country  to  the  city.  It  is  sufficient  to  state  that,  after 
his  abduction  from  the  tent  of  wild  beasts  and  birds  he 
was  spirited  along  to  the  furthest  outskirts  of  the  lactory 
village,  to  a  spot  where  several  gamblers  with  their  con 
federates  were  assembled,  and  there  kept  in  safe  conceal 
ment  until  evening ;  at  which  time  he  set  forward  again 
with  two  men — one  of  them  the  same  who  had  first  of 
fered  him  sympathy  and  protection,  and  the  other  an  in 
timate  friend  and  associate.  The  former's  name,  as  Ga 
briel  subsequently  learned,  and  as  the  reader  may  just 
as  well  know  now,  was  Isaac  Crankey ;  while  the  latter 
rejoiced  in  an  equally  grotesque  nominal — Charles  Fiily- 
mug. 

Hardened  as  both  these  men  must  certainly  have  been, 
they  yet  seemed  to  little  Gabriel. to  discover  traits  vastly 
more  sympathetic  and  desirable  than  any  he  had  yet  been 


GABRIEL     AND     HIS     FEIENDS.  147 

able  to  observe  in  a  single  member  of  the  Nubbles  fam 
ily ;  and  the  event  showed,  beyond  contradiction,  that  he 
far  preferred  trusting  himself  in  their  hands  to  remaining 
longer  in  the  old  ones. 

It  was,  of  course,  nothing  but  a  blind  confidence  on  the 
part  of  the  boy,  but  just  such  are  very  often  productive  of 
as  much  happiness  as  those  that  have  been  carefully  stud 
ied  and  shaped  beforehand.  Besides  this,  he  had  no  one 
now  to  whom  to  look  for  counsel  in  matters  of  such  im 
portance  ;  and  the  room  for  wonder  is  quite  small,  if, 
under  the  pressure  of  ah1  the  circumstances,  he  should 
readily  yield  to  the  earliest  opportunity  for  relief  that 
presented. 

It  was  up  three  flights  of  darkened  and  narrow  stairs, 
in  an  old  wooden  building  that  slunk  exactly  into  the 
heart  of  city  obscurity,  and  around  which  knotty  prob 
lems  of  lanes  and  alleys  and  passages  offered  themselves 
for  the  difficult  solution  of  the  bemazed  traveler,  that  Ga 
briel  was  finally  taken.  The  room  itself  he  lodged  in  was 
capacious  enough  for  the  service  to  which  it  was  put,  yet 
small,  low,  narrow,  and  in  every  manner  contracted.'  The 
windows  were  dirty,  and  coated  with  dust  and  cobwebs; 
but  within  even  that  precaution  against  espionage  had 
been  carefully  secured,  others,  in  the  shape  of  shutters, 
with  solid  and  heavy  bars  of  wood  running  across  them. 
Oftentimes  the  latter  were  kept  up  through  the  whole  of 
the  day ;  at  which  times  Gabriel  came  to  learn  that  Isaac 
Crankey  kept  close  quarters,  while  he  sent  him  out  into 
the  public  streets  either  to  beg,  steal,  or  in  almost  any 
other  way  amuse  himself. 

There  were  but  few  articles  of  furniture  in  the  room, 
and  a  rough  table,  a  chest,  a  chair  or  two,  and  a  cracked 
stove  comprised  them ;  if  to  these  be  added  further  a  low 
bedstead  whereon  Isaac  himself  slept,  while  Gabriel  was 


148  GABRIEL    AND    HIS    FRIENDS. 

directed  to  make  a  pallet  on  the  floor.  Whatever  was 
cooked  Isaac  was  in  the  habit  of  cooking  himself.  Or  he 
sometimes  brought  in  his  food  from  another  apartment  near 
at  hand,  where  lodged  a  woman  that  went  by  the  name  of 
Kate  Trott.  Once,  in  a  long  interval,  she  came  into  the 
apartment  where  Gabriel  was  housed,  giving  him  an  op 
portunity  of  gathering  some  more  definite  impression  of 
her  person  and  character.  She  kept  her  room  pretty 
rigidly,  however,  receiving  visits  from  Isaac  there. 

Fillymug  was  another  friend  of  Isaac's,  too,  and  drop 
ped  in  on  him  quite  often.  Much  of  their  time  was 
passed  together,  especially  at  night ;  and  not  unfre- 
quently  their  meetings,  whether  for  counsel  or  debauch, 
were  protracted  until  quite  daylight. 

Gabriel  apparently  became  quite  used  to  these  beings, 
for  any  very  much  more  exalted  had  not  fallen  in  his  way, 
even  from  his  earliest  youth :  yet  he  was  far  from  being 
satisfied  with  the  low  life  that  only  opened  to  him  in  this 
place.  He  often  repined  for  that  which  he  had  not,  and 
which  he  never  for  a  moment  seriously  thought  he  could 
have.  His  heart  was  unsteady — ill  at  ease — continually 
hankering  for  the  sweet  and  serene  peace  it  did  not 
know.  Aspirations  that  were  his  only  because  they  were 
born  with  him,  and  that  could  have  belonged  honestly  to 
his  nature  in  no  other  way  than  by  inheritance,  now  and 
then  spurred  his  soul  till  he  felt  uneasy  and  unhappy  in 
his  present  abode ;  but  what  could  come  of  them  all  ? 
What  could  one  like  him  do  in  the  midst  of  such  a  press 
ure  as  was  upon  and  around  him?  Where  could  he  go  ? 
How  go?  With  whom?  Where  would  he  be  likely  to 
find  his  next  friend  if  he  chose  voluntarily  to  discard  the 
one  who  had  offered  him  such  kindness  already  ? 

Accordingly  he  determined  not  to  think  of  the  matter 
at  all,  but  to  try  and  continue  as  contented  as  he  could. 


GABRIEL     AND     HIS    FRIENDS.  149 

It  was  a  hard  task,  but  ho  would  accomplish  it.  And  he 
thought  at  the  last  that  he  had  succeeded. 

During  the  days,  therefore,  he  made  himself  useful  in 
performing  out-of-door  errands  for  Isaac — such,  for  ex 
ample,  as  he  was  rather  anxious  not  to  be  seen  perform 
ing  himself,  and  such,  too,  as  were  necessary  on  those 
days  when  he  chose  to  keep  himself  close  within  doors. 
Quite  often  he  began,  after  a  while,  to  carry  verbal  mes 
sages  to  Kate,  who  always  met  him  at  her  door,  and  who 
bestowed  trifling  tokens  of  regard  upon  him  that  won 
over  his  heart  very  easily.  Many  a  time  he  had  repeated 
words  from  Isaac  to  others,  words  that  his  new  protector 
would  have  trusted  on  no  other  lips ;  but  then,  he  under 
stood  nothing  of  the  eventful  consequences  with  which 
those  words  might  be  pregnant,  although  he  received  his 
full  meed  of  praise  for  doing  his  work  as  thoroughly  as 
he  did. 

Isaac  Crankey  seemed  a  very  strange  and  eccentric 
man,  frequently  encompassing  his  ends  by  means  that 
other  men,  even  of  miscellaneous  calling,  might  never 
think  of.  He  was  a  hard  student,  in  of  course  the  lowest 
sense  of  the  term — but  his  thinking  fits  cost  him  many 
and  many  times  over  again  what  a  life  of  simple  honesty- 
would  have  done.  He  Avas  by  no  means  a  man  with  a 
dpwnright  vicious  look ;  on  the  contrary,  he  had  an  ex 
pression  that  was  conciliatory,  if  not  rather  captivating. 
In  and  around  his  numerous  haunts  in  the  city  his  name 
was  pretty  thoroughly  known,  yet  not  a  whit  better  than 
was  his  person.  He  meant  to  have  an  influence  where- 
ever  he  went ;  and  such  as  it  \vas,  he  certainly  did  have 
one. 

His  dress  was  plain,  and  not  unfrequently  a  good  deal 
the  worse  for  previous  use ;  but  such  a  trifle  as  that  was 
not  suffered  to  annoy  him  at  all.  His  usual  suit  was  a 


150  GABRIEL    AND     HIS    FRIENDS. 

snuff-colored  one,  with  a  cap  on  his  head  in  the  place  of  a 
hat,  and  a  turn-down  collar  about  his  neck,  giving  him 
quite  a  free-and-easy  dare-devil  appearance  ;  all  of  which 
may  have  had  something  to  do  originally  with  his  pass 
age  to  the  heart  of  his  friend  and  confidant,  Kate  Trott. 
He  wore  bushy  whiskers,  too,  growing  all  the  way  round 
his  face,  that  gave  him,  at  times,  a  look  not  a  little  fero 
cious.  And  a  sailor's  tie  was  knotted  carefully  beneath 
the  fold  of  his  collar,  making  his  tout  ensemble  altogether 
impressive  and  consistent. 

The  other — Fillymug — was  sinister  in  his  looks.  There 
was  Little — especially  to  a  boy  like  Gabriel — that  was  at 
tractive  about  him.  One  of  his  eyes  was  partially  gone, 
but  enough  of  the  white  and  sightless  eyeball  still  re 
mained  in  the  socket  to  be  visible  whenever  he  moved  it 
about.  He  had  a  long  narrow  face,  but  a  very  wide 
mouth,  filled  with  teeth  that  were  better  called  tusks, 
and  that  occasioned  his  lips  to  protrude  in  a  style  not  at 
all  consistent  with  the  well-understood  lines  of  beauty. 
When  he  spoke  it  was  in  a  deep  and  coarse  voice  that 
filled  the  apartment  with  its  unmusical  sound.  He  lounged 
on  the  bed,  or  on  the  chest,  his  hat  always  on  his  head, 
while  he  threw  his  sprawling  and  ungainly  limbs  in  what 
ever  direction  the  whim  happened  to  lead  him.  Some 
times  he  kept  whittling  silently  by  the  hour,  occupying 
his  thoughts  with  his  various  projects.  At  other  times 
he  seemed  determined  to  let  no  one  talk  but  himself, 
even  closing  the  mouth  of  his  more  astute  friend  and  ally 
against  his  will. 

"  We  '11  see !"  was  the  expression  he  was  often  wont  to 
wind  up  his  long  speeches  with.  "  We  '11  see  !" 

Isaac  had  brought  this  friendless  boy  into  the  city  with 
him,  merely  because  he  happened  to  take  one  of  his  odd 
and  unaccountable  fancies  to  him.  His  youthful  face 


GABRIEL    AND    HIS    FRIENDS.  151 

pleased  him — "  took  his  eye,"  as  he  expressed  it — and 
that  was  all  there  was  about  it.  When  he  had  once 
safely  housed  Gabriel  in  his  mean  and  uncomfortable 
quarters,  he  nursed  a  dim  intention  of  making  something 
of  him ;  he  had  no  definite  idea  what — but  something. 
If  he  were  to  give  him  a  thorough  schooling  in  his  own 
iniquitous  practices,  he  saw  that  it  would  be  but  a  very 
slow  and  gradual  process,  and  that  he  could  not  watch 
the  growing  characteristics  of  his  young  charge  too  nar 
rowly. 

Therefore  he  did  not  think  fit  to  reveal  to  him  at  once 
all  that  he  really  intended  to  do.  Placing  him  right  in 
the  heart  of  such  silent  influences  as  he  thought  would 
soonest  accomplish  his  work,  he  was  quite  content  to 
wait  for  the  pear  to  ripen  before  he  should  offer  to 
pluck  it. 

Gabriel  was  threading  his  way  along  the  narrow  lanes 
in  the  neighborhood  one  day,  when  he  fell  in  with  another 
youngster  a  trifle  older  and  bigger  than  himself,  but  with 
a  manner  of  perfect  self-assurance,  who  immediately  pre 
sumed  on  the  liberty  of  accosting  him. 

"  Wai,  how  goes  it,  boy  ?"  inquired  the  precocious 
young  stranger,  giving  his  short  and  ragged  trowsers  a 
sailor-like  hitch  at  the  waist. 

Gabriel  stood  and  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

"Plow  goes  it,  I  say?"  bawled  out  the  sprout  a  second 
time,  giving  Gabriel  a  knowing  wink. 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  the  latter,  not  knowing 
what  he  could  say. 

"  Wai,  now,  you  must  be  a  keen  'un !  Which  way  does 
the  wind  blow  for  ye,  my  boy  ?  How  does  your  money 
jingle?  Carry  a  '  thimble,'  bub  ?  Picked  up  any  '  dum« 
mies'  lately,  eh  ?  Never  do  such  things,  do  ye  ?" 

No  reply  from  the  astonished  boy. 


152  GABRIEL    AND    HIS    FRIENDS. 

"  Who  air  ye,  any  how  ?  Shiver  ray  young  timbers, 
now,  an'  pull  out  all  my  topsails  by  the  roots,  if  I  know 
any  thing  about  ye !  Why  don't  you  speak,  my  son  ?" 

The  idea  of  being  pertly  designated  as  "  my  son,"  by 
one  scarce  older  or  larger  than  himself,  too,  seemed  to 
Gabriel  the  very  height  of  the  ridiculous.  But  for  all 
that  he  told  the  young  stranger  his  name. 

"  Wai,  wal,  my  boy,  that  '11  do  now.  Jest  remember 
in  fiitur',  will  ye,  that  w'en  I  speak  to  ye,  Billy  Bottles  is 
a-speakin'  to  ye,  an'  you  '11  find,  too,  that  Billy  Bottles 
ain't  no  very  common  kind  of  a  chap  neither  !  He  's  one 
what 's  got  prospects.  Know  wot  them  is  ?" 

Gabriel  frankly  confessed  his  ignorance. 

"Wal,  le'  me  tell  ye,  then,"  said  the  other.  "It's 
where  a  feller 's  got  friends,  an'  sees  his  way  ahead  a  little  ; 
an'  knows  jest  w'en  he  'g  called  on  to  do  somcthin'  for  him 
self  an'  his  country.  Them 's  prospects !  Now  do  ye 
know  ?" 

It  was  really  doubtful  if  he  did  know  a  whit  better 
than  before. 

"  Don't  ye  never  '  touch  ?'  "  asked  Billy,  continuing  his 
slang  allusions. 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Gabriel. 

"  Ninny !  Don't  know  nothin',  do  ye  ?  Where  was  ye 
brought  up  ?  Who  do  you  live  with  ?" 

"  With  Isaac  Crankey." 

"  Isaac !"  exclaimed  the  all-knowing  Billy ;  "  the  very 
deuce  you  do  !  I  know  Isaac,  jest  as  well 's  I  know  you 
this  minnit !  Me  an'  Ike  's  the  best  friends  in  the  world. 
Come,  come  down  with  me  into  my  calaboose  !  The  old 
woman 's  out,  I  guess,  and  we  '11  talk  it  all  over  there ! 
Come !" 

Gabriel  scarcely  knew  what  to  do  in  the  premises,  but 
stood  and  reviewed  the  matter  a  moment  in  his  mind. 


GABRIEL    AND    HIS    FRIENDS.  153 

"  At  any  rate,"  thought  he,  "  this  new  acquaintance  is  a 
lively  one,-  and  promises  a  little  better  for  me  than  noth 
ing.  I  '11  go  with  him  and  look  further."  So  with  stimu 
lated  curiosity  he  followed  him  along. 

Billy  Bottles  was  what  is  sometimes  called  a  "  dock- 
boy  ;"  and  a  boy  more  precocious  in  the  way  of  his  call 
ing,  it  would  be  a  very  hard  matter  to  find  any  where. 
He  told  Gabriel  that  he  lived  alone  with  his  mother  in 
one  of  the  cellars  in  that  vicinity.  So  turning  suddenly 
out  of  the  street,  and  plunging  at  once  into  a  dark  pass 
age-way,  along  which  he  alternately  groped  and  stumbled, 
he  at  length  disappeared  in  a  dark  box  of  a  staircase, 
down  into  a  gloomy  basement  several  steps  below. 

The  place  emitted  a  vile  and  fetid  smell,  strong  enough 
to  drive  away  even  those  much  stronger  than  itself. 
Garbage  had  been  flung  carelessly  about  in  a  little  half- 
court,  dark  and  inaccessible,  near  the  alley,  and  there 
sufiered  to  decay.  The  air  was  thoroughly  poisoned  with 
the  unwholesome  odors,  sufficient  to  breed  contagion  for 
the  whole  neighborhood. 

Opening  the  stained  and  dirty  door,  Billy  stood  back, 
ushering  in  his  friend  with  a  very  wavy  motion  of  his 
hand,  as  soon  as  he  entered  himself,  and  could  take  into 
his  view  all  the  objects  wTithin  the  apartment,  he  made  a 
discovery  that  seemed  to  astonish  even  him,  and  that 
called  forth  an  exclamation  from  him. 

"  My  eyes  now !     What  a  go  this  is  !"  said  he. 

Gabriel  peered  around  the  room  to  leam  the  cause  of 
all  the  wonder. 

"  If  here  ain't  the  blessed  ole  ooman  herself,  now ;  and 
ole  Sharkie,  too !  An'  little  Jane,  three !  Good,  now ! 
I  was  a-going  to  '  tip  a  bust'  ye  see,  mother,  for  my  young 
friend  here !" — and  he  pointed  significantly  over  his 

7* 


154  GABRIEL    AND    HIS    FRIENDS. 

shoulder  at  Gabriel ;  "  but  you  're  all  round  me,  I  see  1 
Wat  '11  a  feller  do  ?" 

"  Do !  He  '11  be  civil,  Billy,"  returned  the  woman 
whom  the  youngster  had  familiarly  addressed  as  Sharkie, 
as  she  swallowed  another  large  draught  from  the  thin  and 
smutty  tumbler  she  held  in  her  hand. 

"Aha !  That  I  will,  ole  mother  Sharkie !"  said  he,  rub 
bing  the  side  of  his  nose  with  his  forefinger,  and  bestow 
ing  on  her  sundry  winks  and  leers  he  had  but  lately 
learned  by  dint  of  laborious  imitation.  "How's  little 
Jane,  to-day  ?" 

"  Little  Jane"  was  a  small  thing  that  went  by  that 
name  alone  among  those  who  knew  her,  or  her  protector, 
Mrs.  Sharkie,  and  was  at  that  moment  curled  up  on  the 
floor,  looking  first  at  Billy's  new  acquaintance,  and  then 
at  Mrs.  Sharkie,  and  then  at  Gabriel,  with  eyes  filled  with 
wronder. 

Something  about  her  face  there  was  that  challenged 
sincerest  sympathy ;  for  beneath  the  covering  that  vicious 
associations  and  the  foul  atmosphere  in  which  she  ex 
isted,  gave  her,  was  partially  concealed  the  real  nature 
she  had  given  her  at  birth.  Manifestly  there  was  a  secret 
history,  a  history  of  wrong  and  cruelty,  connected  with 
the  child,  that  perhaps  some  sympathizing  one,  at  some 
future  time,  might  be  at  the  pains  to  unravel.  But,  poor 
little  creature ! — was  she  sure  that  that  time  would  ever 
come? 

"  Who 's  your  friend,  Billy  ?"  asked  his  mother,  already 
half  overcome  with  the  strength  and  frequency  of  her  vile 
potations. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  with  a  look  of  low  cunning ;  "  quite 
happy  to  see  ye  notice  him !  Feel  much  obliged  !  Fine 
lookin'  chap,  eh?  His  name's  Gabriel.  Gabriel,"  he 
continued,  turning  to  the  boy,  "  won't  you  be  kind  enough 


GAB  El  EL    AND    HIS    FKIENDS.  155 

to  jest  speak  a  word  to  my  mother  ?  She  's  a  sufferin* 
for  somebody  to  talk  to.  Sharkie,  whenever  you  're 
through  with  that  tumbler?" 

"Wai,  what  of  it  ?"  she  asked,  as  if  she  did  not  under- 
stand  him. 

"  Nothin',"  said  he,  "  only  I  '11  take  it,  you  know." 

And  as  soon  as  Mrs.  Sharkie  could  dispose  of  the  little 
remnant  of  the  mixture,  she  surrendered  the  glass  to 
Billy  in  due  form  and  obediently.  He  took  it  from  her, 
and  immediately  set  about  mixing  a  drink,  that  went  with 
him  by  the  name  of  "  his  own  partic'ler  best."  As  soon 
as  he  had  completed  all  the  preparations,  he  deliberately 
turned  round  to  the  company  assembled. 

"  Ladies  'n'  gen'lemen,"  said  he,  with  a  short  scrape 
of  his  little  foot. 

"  You  ha'n't  got  yer  likker  too  strong,  have  ye,  Billy  ?" 
called  out  his  mother,  interested  a  trifle  for  his  internal 
welfare. 

"  No,  I  reck'n  not,  ole  ooman,"  answered  he.  "  Any 
how,  it 's  some  too  late  to  talk  o'  that  now,  as  the  Irish 
man  said  what  swallered  the  chicken  in  his  egg.  Gabriel, 
my  little  feller,  here  's  your  very  good  health  to-day ! 
May  you  live  to  be  the  gov'ner  !" 

Mrs.  Sharkie  laughed  outright  at  the  boy's  smartness 
as  she  always  did.  "  Oh,  you  're  too  good,  Billy !" 
screamed  she,  clapping  her  hands  together.  "  Did  ever 
one  hear  the  like  ?  Miss  Bottles,  but  ha'n't  you  got  a 
smart  boy  there  !  I  wish  he  was  mine.  I  do,  by  all  I  've 
got  above  ground !" 

"  Where  do  you  say  you  got  this  boy  from  ?"  inquired 
Billy's  mother. 

"  Picked  him  up,  mother.  He  was  afloat,  and  so  I  jest 
took  him  in  tow ;  had  n't  got  no  compass,  nor  no  rudder ; 


166  GABRIEL    AND    HIS    FEIENDS. 

I  fetched  him  in  here  to  kind  o'  see  the  place,  you  know. 
You  don't  drink  any  thing  ray  lad,  do  ye  ?" 

Gabriel  modestly  assured  him  that  he  had  not  yet  ar 
rived  at  that  advanced  stage  of  manliness. 

"Oh,  wal,"  said  he,  turning  away,  "it's  jest  as  well. 
A  feller  need  n't  begin  these  things  too  soon,  you  know. 
They  're  apt  to  grow  into  bad  habits,  by-'n'-by !" 

Again  Mrs.  Sharkie  sereamed  with  delight. 

"This  little  feller  lives  with — with — guess  who, 
mother?"  said  he. 

"  Don't  know,  my  son.     Who  is  it  ?" 

"  Why,  it 's  Isaac  Crankey,  an'  nobody  else  !  What 
d'  ye  think  o'  that  ?" 

"  You  don't  tell  me,  now !"  and  she  held  up  a  single 
hand,  tremblingly. 

"  Yes,  I  do,  though ;  and  I  guess  Isaac 's  got  a  good 
bargain,  too.  What  do  you  think  about  it  ?" 

Mrs.  Bottles  did  not  say  what  she  thought  about  it ;  but 
she  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  little  Gabriel  for  a.  long  time, 
wondering  with  herself  where  Isaac  could  have  had  the 
good  luck  to  fall  in  with  him. 

"  Did  n't  expect  to  find  you  here,  Shai-kie,"  said  Billy, 
strutting  rather  magnificently  toward  her,  across  a  short 
strip  of  the  floor.  "  ISTo,  nor  little  Jane,  neither.  It's 
just  as  Avell,  though,  for  all  that." 

"  A'n't  sorry  we  've  come,  Billy  ?"  asked  she,  in  an  ex 
ceedingly  maudlin  way. 

"  Wal,  no,  can't  'xackly  say  't  I  am.  All  well  enough, 
I  s'pose.  What  d'  you  think  o'  my  friend  there  ?" 

"  He  '11  do,  I  guess.  Goin'  to  give  him  a  bringin'  up, 
eh  ?" 

"  P'raps  so.  I  guess  he  '11  let  me  play  schoolmaster  a 
little.  Goin'  to  see  Isaac  about  it ;  this  blessed  night, 
too.  Guess  I  '11  get  a  job  out  of  him." 


GABRIEL    AND    HIS    FEIENDS.  157 

"  Will  you,  though  ?  I  really  hope  you  will  now, 
Billy.  Bright  boy,  you !" 

"  Oh,  mother !"  he  suddenly  broke  out.  "  Le'  me  tell 
you  a  thing  or  two  !  I  '11  tell  you  all  a  sight  I  've  seen 
this  very  day;  an'  it's  well  worth  a  seein',  too." 

""  What  was  it,  Billy  ?"  both  women  asked  at  once,  be 
stowing  on  him  their  undivided  attention. 

"Why,  it's  the  sleepy  chap,  wot  eveiy  body  all  over 
town's  goin'  to  look  at!  He's  a  rare  one,  I  guess! 
There  a'n't  another  such  a  one  any  where  round,  I 
know !" 

"  The  sleepin'  man  ?"  inquired  his  mother. 

"  Yis ;  he 's  slep'  this  five  year,  stiddy ;  don't  do 
nothin'  but  sleep;  sleeps  as  well  a-standin'  up  as  I  do 
a-layin'  down ;  ha'n't  got  no  feelin'  at  all ;  boys  stick  pins 
into  him,  and  needles,  jest  like  a  pin-cushion  ;  but  the  ole 
feller  don't  budge  an  inch !  Never  see  such  a  animal 
afore,  myself.  He's  dreadful  cold,  too,  all  the  time. 
Don't  '3at  nothin',  only  when  it 's  put  into  his  mouth,  and 
then  you  can't  hardly  see  him  swaller.  They  '11  stand  him 
up  on  his  feet  in  the  middle  o'  the  floor,  and  there  he  '11 
stan' ;  he  don't  stir  a  step,  nor  don't  offer  to.  He  keeps 
his  eyelids  a  movin'  jest  a  trifle,  an'  that 's  all  you  can  see 
of  it.  They  open  his  mouth  for  him,  an'  jam  his  wittles 
right  in  like  dough ;  if 't  wa'n't  for  that,  he  'd  never  eat 
another  hooter ;  no,  not  a  single  crum  !" 

And  upon  this,  Master  Billy  looked  around  on  his 
audience,  to  see  if  the  impression  made  by  his  brief  nar 
rative  was  at  all  general. 

"  You  've  seen  lots,  in  your  little  life,  ha'n't  you, 
Billy  ?"  said  Sharkie,  quite  inclined  to  court  his  friendship. 

"  All  o'  that,"  said  the  boy,  in  reply.  "  And  I  mean 
this  little  'un  sh'll  have  a  chance,  too,"  pointing  to  Ga 
briel,  "  As  soon 's  his  guv'ner  gives  him  over  to  me  1 


158  GABKIEL    AND    HIS    FRIENDS. 

Can't  do  much  till  then.  Want  a  fair  field,  an'  no  favors, 
yon  know." 

When  Mr.  Sharlde,  not  long  after,  made  signs  of  going, 
Billy  began  to  assume  the  part  of  host  and  entertainer  ; 
and  talked  quite  resonantly — for  a  boy — about  her  stay 
ing  a  while  longer  ;  and  of  her  visit  being  very  short,  for 
her.  But  he  was  hardly  able  to  dissuade  her  from  her 
purpose.  "Any  how,"  said  he,  "we'll  come  round, 
some  time  soon,  and  drop  in  on  you  an'  little  -Jane.  I 
want  my  friends  all  of  'em  to  be  acquainted,  you  know." 

"Jes'  so,  Billy,"  said  she.  "Do,  now!  I  wish  you 
would !" 

"  Won't  ye  take  jest  another  lit-tle  drop  afore  you 
go  ?"  asked  Billy's  mother. 

"  Oh,  now,  Bottles !"  she  exclaimed,  feigning  modesty. 

"  Yis,  yis  ;  might  as  well,"  urged  Billy. 

So  she  mixed  herself  a  dram,  pledging  all  those  pres 
ent  to  its  sugary  dregs ;  Master  Billy  and  his  friend, 
especially.  Gathering  her  duds,  and  taking  little  Jane 
under  her  wing,  whose  luminous  eyes  were  fixed,  as  in 
deep  thought,  upon  Gabriel  to  the  last  moment,  she  asked 
all  present  to  "  git  round"  as  soon  as  they  might  find  it 
convenient,  and  went  fumbling  her  way  out  through  the 
gloomy  passage  into  the  little  area. 

"  Now  we  '11  go,"  said  Billy  to  his  new  friend,  a  minute 
or  two  afterward.  And  Gabriel  went  out  with  his  brain 
filled  with  wonder,  and  his  youthful  heart  troubled  with 
what  he  had  seen. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

SCHOOLFELLOWS. 

A  TOTING  lady  stood  on  the  platform  at  the  little  rail 
road  station,  some  dozen  or  fifteen  miles  from  Draggle- 
dew  Plain,  in  the  middle  of  a  very  warm  afternoon,  and 
seemed  to  be  looking  about  her  for  assistance.  As  soon 
as  the  train  had  whizzed  off  again,  and  disappeared 
around  the  curve  in  the  distance,  a  man  deliberately 
stepped  before  her,  and  asked,  "  Did  you  want  to  go  any 
where,  ma'am  ?" 

He  was  a  rough-looking  character,  stout  and  stocky, 
and  limped  about  on  his  way  from  the  platform  to  the 
little  hack  he  kept  standing  just  round  the  corner  of  the 
station.  It  was  hot  and  uncomfortable  standing  there  in 
the  sand,  with  the  boiling  sun  right  over  one  ;  so  the 
young  lady  told  him  that  she  wished  to  go  to  Draggle- 
dew  Plain,  and  inquired  if  there  might  be  any  means  of 
conveyance  at  hand. 

"  Oh,  yes,  ma'am ;  I  drive  right  through  that  place. 
Got  my  stage  just  round  the  corner.  If  you'll  come  with 
me,  ma'am,  I'll  take  your  things  along  for  you.  This 
your  baggage  ?  Just  come  with  me,  ma'am,  and  we  '11 
be  off  as  soon  's  I  can  get  my  mail  over  't  the  store  yon 
der."  And  he  seized  a  trunk  and  a  traveling  bag,  and 
marched  off  as  fast  as  his  rheumatic  twinges  allowed  him 
to  the  stage. 


160  SCHOOLFELLOWS. 

It  was  an  extremely  unique  thing  for  a,  stage ;  however, 
the  young  lady  was  assisted  in.  The  easy-souled  old 
driver  climbed  up  after  her  to  the  seat  in  front,  between 
which  and  her  own  there  was  no  protecting  division, 
drove  round  to  the  post-office,  hallooed  many  times  to 
the  man  and  boy  inside  to  bring  out  the  mail-bags,  took 
them  and  trampled  them  hastily  under  his  feet,  and  hur 
ried  away  over  a  quiet  country-road,  shouting  "  Ga-lang ! 
ga-lang!"  to  his  pair  of  jaded  and  faded  sorrel  horses  for 
a  long,  long  distance. 

He  thought  he  must  make  himself  agreeable,  as  the 
entire  race  of  the  good  old  fashioned  stage-drivers  still 
continue  to  think,  and  as  they  probably  will  think  to  their 
lives'  end.  So  he  turned  half  about  on  his  seat,  and  asked 
his  passenger  if  she  had  "come  fur  in  the  cars?" 

Well,  yes ;  she  had  come  from  the  city,  and  that  was 
pretty  far'. 

"It's  pleasant  ridin'  in  the  country  now,"  suggested 
he,  throwing  back  the  soiled  crown  of  his  straw-hat  to  the 
view  of  the  young  lady,  and  throwing  up  his  face  to  the 
sky.  "  Especially  to  city  folks."  He  should  think  more 
of 'em  would  come  out  where  they  could  get  fresh  water, 
and  fresh  air,  and  fresh  other  things,  and  so  on.  Was 
she  acquainted  with  any  of  the  people  at  Draggledew 
Plain  ?  Yes — eh  ?  Going  a  visiting,  he  s'posed  ?  Yes, 
he  had  guessed  it.  The  Riverses,  eh  ?  Was  she  related 
to  them  ?  He  had  heard  of  them  folks,  over  to  Draggle 
dew,  and  thought  they  must  be  pretty  nice  sort  of  people. 

"  Old  and  intimate  friends,"  added  the  passenger. 

"  Ah  !  Good  thing  to  have  friends ;  go  'long  so  much 
pleasanter  through  the  world.  Was  they  rich?  He'd 
heerd  somethin'  or  other  about  it,  he  could  n't  exactly 
remember  what." 

"Well,  they  had  been  ;  but  Mr.  Rivers  had  been  un 


SCHOOLFELLOWS.  161 

fortunate,  and  was  now  living  a  life  of  retired  simplic 
ity." 

The  old  driver  recrossed  his  legs,  took  another  com 
prehensive  look  at  the  sky  and  over  the  landscape,  and 
then  settled  his  eyes  on  the  cushion  beside  him,  from 
which  he  could,  with  equal  facility,  throw  a  quick  glance 
either  at  the  passenger  on  the  back-seat,  or  toward  the 
horses  before  him. 

So  they  rode  along;  over  bare  and  heated  plains, 
above  which  wavering  columns  were  continually  dancing 
upward  to  the  sky ;  dpAvn  through  dark  and  leafy  dells, 
still  fresh  with  the  smell  of  waters,  where  the  chattering 
squirrels  were  making  the  hollows  echo  with  the  sharp 
ring  of  their  voices  ;  up  sandy  and  steep  acclivities  facing 
the  west,  so  that  the  afternoon  sun  came  full  into  the 
brown  face  of  the  companionable  driver  ;*and  through 
strips  and  patches  of  forest  border,  where  the  shadows 
from  tall  chestnuts  and  beeches  seemed  to  lay  one  upon 
another,  dai'k  and  thick,  like  the  leaves  themselves  in  late 
October ;  till  at  length  there  burst  upon  their  view  the 
vision  of  quiet  Draggledew  Plain  itself. 

"Is  this  it?"  she  asked,  in  a  sudden  and  pleasant  sur 
prise. 

"Yes,  jnarm  ;  this  is  the  place." 

The  tavern,  or  public  house,  was  a  low  and  snug  build 
ing,  with  a  roof  long  and  sharp,  and  a  doorway'  wide  and 
ample.  "  Hector  Hedge  keeps  this  place,"  said  the  driver 
just  as  they  came  in  front  of  the  door,  "  and  he  '11  get 
you  to  Mr.  Rivers's  ;  I  'd  go  with  you  myself,  marm,  and 
too  happy  to  do  it  at  that" — here  he  threw  her  a  glance 
and  a  smile — "  if  I  had  n't  got  to  go  another  way.  My 
route  lays  acrost  yender,"  and  he  pointed  in  the  direction 
with  his  whip. 

A  inan  of  a  moderate  amount  of  flesh  walked  down 


162  SCHOOLFELLOWS. 

from  the  door  to  the  vehicle.  The  driver  tells  him  what 
was  wanted,  calling  him  all  the  time  Mr.  Hedge.  Mr. 
Hedge  looks  very,  squarely  at  the  lady,  bows  very  stiffly, 
says,  "  you  '11  get  out  here,  if  you  please,  marm,"  and 
puts  forth  one  his  liberal  sized  hands  to  assist  her  down. 
She  is  conducted  into  the  little  sitting-room,  into  which 
a  woman  and  two  children  conduct  themselves  likewise, 
the  former  to  stare  and  put  questions,  and  the  latter  to 
stare  and  keep  their  mouths  open.  And  while  these  pro 
cesses  are  going  on  most  successfully,  Mr.  Hedge  himself 
enters,  announcing — "All  ready,  marm!" 

It  is  a  ride  of  but  a  few  minutes  up  to  the  residence  of 
Mr.  Rivers,  and  when  the  tired  traveler  comes  in  sight 
of  the  place,  of  which  Mr.  Hedge  duly  informs  her,  she 
is  greeted  by  the  pleasant  and  refreshing  vision  of  two 
girls,  dressed  in  pure  white,  sitting  on  the  little  piazza. 
Her  heart  jumps  writhin  her  for  joy. 

Before  she  has  had  time  to  leap  from  the  clumsy  wagon 
to  the  ground  both  of  them  are  at  the  gate,  and  as  soon 
as  possible  seize  upon  her  with  the  greediness  of  true 
friendship.  They  did  not  expect  her  to-day,  else  they 
should  have  rode  over  to  the  village  to  meet  her !  They 
were  so  very  glad  she  had  come  !  Mary  knew  she  would 
not  forget  them  just  because  they  happened  to  be  poor! 
and  Martha  knew  she  would  not  because  she  felt  that  her 
friend's  was  a  nature  far  above  such  trifling  considerations 
as  those  of  mere  wealth  and  poverty. 

Hector  Hedge  set  the  luggage  on  the  piazza  and  hur 
ried  home.  Mrs.  Hedge  immediately  began  to  worry 
him  for  intelligence.  He  gave  up  what  he  had,  and 
there  stopped.  But  she  was  feverish  for  more.  What 
she  had  got  was  merely  an  appetizer ;  it  made  her  more 
and  more  hungry.  She  declared  she  must  take  some  day 
to  go  over  to  "  Mr.  Rivers's"  herself. 


SCHOOLFELLOWS.  163 

"  1  would,"  joined  in  her  husband.  "  You  '11  "be  better 
satisfied,  then  !" 

Whether  she  did  or  not  does  not  appear. 

Ellen  Worthington  was  an  old  friend  and  schoolmate 
•f  the  girls,  and  they  had  looked  forward  to  the  visit 
promised  them  with  a  great  deal  of  satisfaction.  She  was 
herself  possessed  of  a  considerable  amount  of  wealth, 
having  lost  both  her  parents,  and  being  at  this  day  en 
tirely  alone  in  the  world,  without  sister  or  brother.  Her 
house  in  town  she  still  occupied,  receiving  her  friends  in 
the  same  way  she  always  had,  and  just  the  same  gentle 
creature  she  always  was  to  every  one.  Her  heart  over 
flowed  when  she  met  these  dear  friends  of  hers  once 
more,  their  circumstances  so  greatly  changed,  yet  their 
affection  for  her  in  no  degree  abated.  She  threw  herself 
into  their  arms,  and  fairly  wept  for  joy. 

A  day  or  two's  rest  sufficed  to  give  her  a  thorough  in 
sight  into  the  charms  of  their  present  quiet  and  simple 
mode  of  life.  The  retirement  seeming  almost  sacred; 
the  beauty  of  the  spot  itself;  the  bewildering  dreaminess 
of  the  scenery— rocks,  trees,  vines,  and  waters  ;  the  gen 
tle  dalliance  of  those  pleasant  thoughts  with  the  brain, 
and  of  those  delightful  emotions  with  the  heart,  that 
bring  the  sweetest  happiness  while  they  do  not  enervate ; 
from  all  these  she  drew  secret  enjoyment  many  and  many 
times  over  again. 

There  was  nothing  left  undone  that  could  be  done  to 
render  the  visitor's  dream  of  happiness  complete.  Neither 
parents  nor  daughters  overlooked  a  single  means  of  add 
ing  to  her  gratification.  The  country  was  spread  before 
her  in  its  most  winning  attractiveness.  Every  bit  of 
scenery  that  was  worth  seeing  in  that  vicinity  she  was 
duly  carried  about  to  enjoy.  Whatever  her  appetite 
craved  that  came  from  garden,  field,  or  fold,  was  laid  be- 


164  SCHOOLFELLOWS. 

fore  her  in  its  most  tempting  style  of  cooking  or  dressing. 
She  praised  the  air,  the  sun,  the  fields,  the  gardens — she 
praised  every  thing.  She  knew  nothing  how  delightful 
a  country  life  could  be  made.  She  was  quite  tempted  to 
try  a  similar  change  herself;  at  least  for  the  summer 
months.  Mary  said  "  she  would  like  that,  she  was  sure  ; 
but  this  staying  out  beyond  the  confines  of  civilization  all 
the  year,  no  change,  and  no  relief — bah !" 

Martha  laughed,  and  so  did  Ellen ;  and  between  them 
they  made  merry  times  over  their  discussions  of  the  pe 
culiar  pleasures  and  advantages  of  a  rustic  existence. 

A  few  days  after  her  arrival  the  girls  proposed  to  take 
a  stroll  through  the  village.  Glad  enough  to  go,  Ellen 
made  herself  ready  in  great  haste,  and  they  set  out  to 
gether.  They  walked  slowly  along  the  street,  alternately 
admiring  and  making  their  comments,  till  Martha,  almost 
without  the  intention  of  doing  such  a  thing,  had  led  them 
to  the  gate  of  the  deaf  and  dumb  girl's  cottage.  Instinct 
ively  she  stopped. 

"Are  you  going  in  here?"  asked  Mary. 

"  Yes,  if  both  of  you  are  willing.     Why  not  ?" 

"  What  a  sweet  little  place  !"  exclaimed  Ellen.  "  Why, 
it 's  the  very  miniature  of  every  thing  I  ever  saw !  Who 
lives  here  ?" 

"  A  woman,  and  a  deaf  and  dumb  girl,"  answered  Mar 
tha.  "Come,  let's  go  in.  They  will  interest  you,  I 
know." 

As  they  now  accidentally  caught  a  view  of  Alice  Mor 
row  standing  in  the  door,  they  thought  they  could  do  no 
less  than  go  in  and  sit  a  few  miimtes ;  so  Martha  led 
the  way. 

Alice  seemed  delighted  to  greet  her  new  friends  again, 
and  stooped  down  and  kissed  Martha.  Mary  was  rather 
more  shy  with  her  advances,  and  the  girl  did  not  feel  so 


SCHOOLFELLOWS.  165 

free  with  her ;  but  it  was  apparent  that  Martha  she  re 
garded  already  as  a  sister.  They  went  in,  and  grouped 
themselves  in  that  same  little  parlor — Mrs.  Polly,  Alice, 
and  all.  There  is  no  telling  how  snug  they  looked  there. 
There  is  no  knowing  how  very  diminutive  each  one 
seemed  suddenly  to  grow,  keeping  such  exact  proportion 
with  the  dimensions  of  every  thing  around  them.  It  was 
something  as  if  you  should  reverse  your  lorgnette  and 
look  at  people  through  the  wrong  end. 

Martha  put  the  woman  many  questions  respecting 
Alice,  such  as  how  she  employed  her  time,  Avhat  were  her 
commoner  thoughts,  what  was  her  usual  frame  of  mind, 
and  other  subjects  of  like  character^;  and  it  interested 
them  all  very  deeply  to  see  with  what  intense  attention 
the  mute  watched  the  countenance,  the  eyes  and  the  lips, 
alternately  of  Martha  and  of  Mrs.  Polly.  She  looked  as 
if  at  moments  she  really  must  speak ;  her  beautiful  eyes 
did  speak  that  silent  language  that  long  and  long  after- 
A\:ard  haunts  the  sensitive  imagination,  and  echoes  melo 
diously  along  the  winding  passages  of  the  memory. 

Several  times  did  Martha  glance  at  her  friend  Ellen 
during  the  progress  of  the  interview,  and  each  time  she 
could  not  fail  to  observe  that  her  countenance  wore  an 
expression  of  deep  and  strong  excitement.  What  could 
be  the  meaning  of  it  she  was  unable  to  divine.  The  inter 
est  that  Ellen  appeared  to  feel  in  the  stranger  was  so  sud 
den  and  so  deep  ,that  to  Martha  it  seemed  unaccountable. 

At  length  Alice  went  out  of  the  room,  and  in  a  minute 
or  two  returned  with  a  paper  slate.  On  this  she  pro 
ceeded  to  write  what  she  wished  to  communicate.  But 
her  sentences  were  only  for  Martha's  eyes.  She  seemed 
to  have  fastened  on  her  for  a  confidant  from  the  begin 
ning. 

Handing  the  slate,  therefore,  to  Martha,  and  bestowing 


166  SCHOOLFELLOWS. 

on  her  a  highly  intelligent  smile  as  she  did  so,  the  latter 
took  it  and  read  : — 

"  I  love  to  see  you  here  so  much.  Your  face  makes  me 
always  happy.  I  love  to  have  you  bring  all  your  friends 
besides.  I  call  you  in  my  heart  my  sister.  Pray  come 
and  see  me  often,  dear  sister.  I  want  some  one  to  live  near 
me  all  the  time.  I  want  to  walk  with  you  some  time  in  the 
fields  and  woods,  and  enjoy  all  that  you  enjoy.  Will  you 
come  often  to  see  me  ?  Will  you  let  me  call  you  my  dear 
sister  ?" 

The  perfectly  innocent  candor  that  breathed  in  this 
simple  communication  struck  a  chord  in  the  heart  of  Mar 
tha  that  had  hardly  vibrated  so  vigorously  before.  In  a 
single  moment,  by  the  bound,  as  it  were,  of  a  single  un 
controllable  impulse,  she  felt  that  her  love  threw  its  arms 
instantaneously  around  the  object  that  so  deeply  yearned 
for  its  oaressf  and  that  she  was  already  quite  a  sister  to 
the  orphan,  even  as  she  had  fondly  wished.  She  there 
upon  wrote  in  few  words  sentiments  fully  in  sympathy 
with  those  of  Alice,  and  with  an  indescribable  look  of 
pleasure,  handed  her  back  the  slate. 

The  agreeable  talk  was  pursued  still  farther  by  the 
three  girls,  to  whose  numerous  inquiries  Mrs.  Polly  re 
turned  thoughtful  answers,  expressive  alike  of  her  grati 
tude  for  their  attention  arid  her  proper  appreciation  of 
their  sympathy.  She  let  them  confidentially,  as  it  were, 
and  with  an  air  of  such  simple  and  unaffected  confidence 
too,  into  the  little  secrets  of  the  daily  life  of  Alice,  enter 
taining  them  with  relations  of  her  manner  of  roaming 
about  to  tend  her  favorite  plants  in  the  garden  and  yard, 
her  sitting  alone  with  her  thoughts  in  the  shade  of  some 
particular  tree,  and  the  various  ways  in  which  she  was 
accustomed  to  express  the  many-hued  emotions  that 
chased  each  other  across  her  soul. 


SCHOOLFELLOWS.  167 

Unwilling  still  to  break  the  charming  delight  of  such  a 
dream, -the  girls  nevertheless  felt  that  they  would  at  some 
time  be  compelled  to  leave,  and  therefore  soon  rose  with 
that  intention.  Mrs.  Polly,  in  her  plain  but  perfectly 
honest  way,  thanked  them  every  one  for  their  kindness, 
and  urged  them'  to  call  again,  and  as  often  as  they  walked 
that  way ;  while  Alice,  her  face  alive  with  happiness  and 
radiant  with  the  joy  that  stirred  in  her  heart,  went  round 
shaking  hands  in  silence  with  each,  and  smiling  on  them 
all  as  they  thought  none  but  she  could  smile. 

They  withdrew  with  the  happiest  of  impressions ;  and 
as  they  strolled  back  over  the  broad  border  of  turf  that 
skirted  the  road,  walking  slowly  through  the  great  figures 
of  shadows  that  the  elms  and  maples  threw  down  at  their 
feet,  they  secretly  felt  that  their  natures  had  been  imper 
ceptibly  elevated  by  the  scene  through  which  they  had 
gone,  and  that  not  the  least  of  the  lessons  they  had  that 
day  learned  was  the  very  necessary  lesson  of  complete 
contentment.  The  humble  little  cottage  had  suddenly 
become  as  a  blazing  beacon  set  on  the  very  top  of  a  hill. 

Rambling  whithersoever  the  inclination  led  them,  they 
turned  away  from  the  main  street  of  the  village,  and  after 
a  walk  of  a  few  minutes,  discovered  that  they  were  close 
upon  the  grave-yard.  Martha  proposed  going  in.  Her 
sister  said  No,  at  once.  But  Ellen  was  desirous  of  roam 
ing  for  a  little  while  in  a  place  so  hallowed  in  all  her  asso 
ciations,  and  they  accordingly  went  through  the  gateway. 
They  conned  the  letters  that  told  the  names  and  the  ages 
of  many  of  the  dead,  reading  in  tones  sympathetically  low 
and  solemn.  Around  the  humped  mounds  they  straggled, 
among  the  long  grasses  that  made  sighing  harp-strings  for 
the  winds,  and  the  coarse  blackberry  vines  that  run  riot 
over  many  and  many  an  unmarked  grave.  Ellen  was  sad 
and  thoughtful ;  and  her  companions  sought  not  to  break 


168  SCHOOLFELLOWS. 

the  influence  of  the  feeling  that  surrounded  her.  She 
seemed  to  choose  loneliness,  wandering  away  by  herself. 
Martha,  whose  acute  sympathies  were  wedded  to  percep 
tions  equally  quick,  thought  she  detected  her  once  in  the 
act  of  weeping,  as  she  bent  down  to  spell  the  lettering  on 
a  weigher-stained  head-stone ;  and  struggled  with  her 
own  generous  impulse  to  go  and  sit  down  beside  her,  and 
mingle  her  tears  with  the  tears  of  her  orphan  friend.  But 
she  resisted  the  desire,  and  suffered  Ellen  to  remain  un 
interrupted. 

They  finally  came  along  to  the  brow  of  a  slight  decliv 
ity,  whose  slope  was  dotted  thickly  with  grassy  hillocks. 
Unperceived  by  her  as  yet,  they  saw  a  woman  in  the 
act  of  kneeling  over  a  grave  with  a  gray  stone  at  each  of 
its  ends,  and  scattering  wild  flowers  upon  it  profusely 
from  head  to  foot.  She  had  already  given  the  grave  the 
appearance  of  a  bed  of  roses. 

Neither  of  them  would  have  been  rude  enough  or 
thoughtless  enough  to  invade  the  sacred  privacy  of  her 
affectionate  grief,  but  there  they  suddenly  found  them 
selves,  and  found  themselves  equally  unable  to  withdraw. 
And  while  they  still  stood  in  doubt,  their  feelings  wrought 
sensibly  upon  by  the  sight  that  presented  itself,  she  fin 
ished  the  errand  of  love  on  which  she  had  come,  and  at 
last  took  the  path  away  from  them,  that  wound  down 
among  the  thick  graves  into  the  little  valley. 

But  while  she  had  remained,  she  had  given  them  an 
opportunity  to  observe  enough  to  fix  her  in  their  memor 
ies  as  long  as  they  lived.  Her  face,  which  was  but  par 
tially  averted  from  them,  was  wrinkled  and  marked  with 
age ;  while,  if  even  that  additional  proof  were  needed,  her 
gray  hair,  parted  with  such  nicety  over  her  temples,  told 
them  still  more  truly  that  her  years  were  many.  And  the 
manner  in  which  she  proceeded  to  strew  her  flowers  over 


SCHOOLFELLOWS.  169 

the  ridge  of  that  humble  mound,  spoke  more  than  a 
thousand  tongues  could  have  spoken  for  the  depth  and 
the  sanctity  of  her  heart's  consuming  grief.  She  clasped 
her  hands  above  the  grave,  and  lifted  her  eyes  fervently 
to  heaven;  and  Martha  felt  sure  that  she  saw  glittering 
tears  drop  among  the  scattered  flowers,  to  exhale  with  the 
fragrance  of  her  simple  offerings  to  the  blue  sky  that  bent 
over  her  in  protection. 

Soon  after  she  left  the  spot,  the  three  girls  went  down 
in  silence,  as  if  their  movement  had  been  sinyiltaneous,  to 
read  the  inscription  on  the  gray  headstone.  Kneeling  in 
the  long  grass,  while  the  sweet  odors  of  the  flower-offer 
ings  refreshed  them,  they  read  as  follows : 

"MRS.    PRUDENCE    FERGUSON, 

BELICT  OF  JONATHAN   FEEGU8ON, 

WHO     DEPABTED     THIS     LIFE 
IN    THE     BLESSED     HOPE     OF     A     BETTEK, 

June  llth,  1T93, 

JEt.  34." 

"  Oh,  death !  where  is  thy  sting? 
Oh,  grave  1  where  is  thy  victory?" 

And  thus,  as  they  afterward  learned,  had  this  woman 
with  gray  hairs  and  stooping  form  regularly  gone  to  the 
grave  of  that  mother  who  died  in  her  earliest  youth,  year 
in  and  year  out ;  her  affection  never  dying  away,  but 
rather  waxing  stronger  and  stronger,  and  burning  brighter 
and  brighter ;  the  tenderness  of  her  eai'ly  grief  still  as 
marked  as  when  in  the  prime  of  her  life  she  for  the  first 
remembered  time  wore  the  little  suit  of  sable ;  her  heart 
even  now — far  apart  as  this  and  that  dear  old  time  were 
— yearning  like  the  heart  of  a  sorrowing  child  for  the 
embrace  of  her  sainted  mother ! 

The  old  woman,  herself  wailing  for  the  final  summons, 


170  SCHOOLFELLOWS. 

come  to  weep  and  to  strew  flowers  upon  the  grave  of  the 
mother  long  ago  dead !  The  weary  pilgrim,  sitting  down 
by  the  graves  that  line  the  wayside,  and  recalling  to  her 
vision  the  face  of  the  single  loved  one,  loved  even  to 
idolatry !  The  child's  heart  still  a  child's  in  the  bent 
body ;  the  early  love  burning  as  it  burned  in  the  day  of 
bitterness  and  despair ;  the  innocent  faith,  grown  greater 
with  each  revolving  year,  reaching  forward,  looking  up 
ward,  till  it  had  almost  come  to  the  threshold  of  the  Good 
Father's  ho*se  itself,  across  which  all  became  but  mem 
bers  of  one  glorious  household ! 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

NONESUCH. 

IT  was  not  an  apple,  exactly,  if  it  was  a  nonesuch.  It 
was  quite  a  different  species  of  fruit ;  whether  fully  ripe 
or  not  I  am  sure  I  can  not  say ;  whether  pleasant  or  not 
to  the  taste  is  simply  a  matter  to  be  left  with  the  reader's 
judgment ;  and  whether  of  a  great  amount  of  conse 
quence  in  any  way  or  no,  a  very  few  pages,  with  my  kind 
reader's  favor,  will  be  quite  sufficient  to  show. 

The  girls  were  sitting  chatting  pleasantly  together  in 
the  parlor  one  afternoon,  one  trying  to  sew,  another  to 
embroider  some  trifling  article,  and  a  third  turning  over 
the  leaves  of  a  book  that  lay  in  her  lap,  when  a  shadow 
very  unexpectedly  fell  across  the  floor,  and  an  unfamiliar 
voice  gave  notice  of  the  presence  of  an  individual  for 
whom  they  had  made  no  preparation. 

"  Ah,  yes  !  Good  afternoon,  ladies  !"  said  he,  holding 
his  white  beaver  carelessly  in  his  hand,  while  he  slid  quite 
as  carelessly  into  a  convenient  chair.  "  Thought  I  'd 
take  a  little  walk,  such  a  pleasant  day,"  wiping  his  fore 
head  with  a  white  handkerchief  shat  he  drew  out  at  enor 
mous  length  and  with  corresponding  slowness ;  "  very 
warm,  too  ;  I  declare  I  hardly  ever  see  such  changeable 
weather.  But  one  feels  paid  for  his  walk,  when  he  gets 
out  here.  What  a  beautiful  place  you  have  got  here ! 
'Tis  beautiful !  None  such  any  where  else  'round  here 


172  NONESUCH. 

None  sucli  in  any  town  I  've  ever  been  in.  I  declare  'tis 
beautiful !  All  busy  this  afternoon,  I  see !  ha,  ha,  ha ! 
Ladies  always  will  be  doing  something.  Never  see  the 
like  of  them  in  all  my  life.  I  laugh  with  some  ladies  that 
,  I  'm  acquainted  with  here  and  there  about  the  country, 
and  tell  them  I  don't  see  what  they  always  find  to  do  ; 
but  that  don't  seem  to  make  no  kind  of  difference  with 
'em.  They  always  have  kept  busy  at  it  and  they  always 
will." 

The  girls  at  first  looked  up  at  him  in  blank  astonish 
ment,  then  at  one  another,  and  afterward  at  him  again. 
What  to  make  of  it  passed  their  comprehension.  What 
to  do,  they  none  of  them  knew.  And  they  held  their 
peace,  from  nothing  but  the  overwhelming  surprise  that 
made  them  dumb. 

There  he  sat  loungingly  in  his  chair,  the  very  personi 
fication  of  nonchalance,  and  as  perfectly  at  home  as  if  he 
had  been  living  in  the  house  from  the  day  the  carpenters 
delivered  up  the  key  and  carried  away  their  tools.  His 
name  was  Dandelly.  It  was  warm  summer  weather,  and 
he  was  dressed,  as  he  was  wont  to  dress  in  that  season, 
in  a  suit  of  pure  white.  His  pantaloons  and  coat  were 
white,  and  so  was  his  vest.  About  his  thick  and  gross 
neck  he  had  folded  a  white  cravat,  not  exactly  immacu 
late  to  be  sure,  yet  tied  with  a  skill  that  he  evidently  con 
sidered  more  than  a  compensation  for  crumpling  and 
soiling  together.  His  hair  was  black,  and  carefully  curled 
in  little  ringlets,  which  lie  was  at  untiring  pains  to  adjust 
to  a  suitable  and  effective  fall  about  his  neck  and  over  his 
ears,  and  arranged  with  what  he  could  not  help  thinking 
a  killing  grace  over  his  high  and  narrow  temples.  On 
the  top  of  his  pear-shaped  head,  they  were  twisted  and 
tangled,  wriggled  around  and  corkscrewed  about,  till 
there  seemed  to  be  nothing  there  but  a  living  and  thriv« 


NONESUCH.  173 

ing  bed  of  little  ringlets.  He  felt  so  completely  satisfied 
with  himself,  too,  that  even  the  famous  Beau  Brummel 
"would  have  been  in  his  eyes  any  thing  rather  than  an  ob 
ject  of  envy. 

There  he  sat  loungingly  in  his  chair,  sticking  out  his 
varnished  leather  shoes,  and  toying  his  black  mustache 
with  his  thumb  and  finger.  His  eyes,  which  unfortu 
nately  for  their  fair  expression  were  quite  small,  seemed 
to  try  to  brighten,  but  they  barely  made  out  to  twinkle 
only,  like  very  small  stars  in  a  very  far-off  sky.  He 
laughed  and  smiled,  became  sober  or  vivacious  in  a 
shorter  time  than  one  would  be  in  the  telling  of  it ;  and 
rattled  on  with  his  own  talk  like  the  light  jouncing  of  a 
springless  wagon  over  a  rough  and  stony  road. 

"  What  beautiful  flowers  you  've  got  here,  ladies  !  I'd 
heerd  a  good  deal  about  them,  bnt  I  'd  never  been  to 
see  them  before.  Perfectly  beautiful,  I  declare !  Per 
fectly  exquisite !" — and  here  he  took  an  instinctive  snuff, 
as  if  he  had  a  fresh  bouquet  right  under  his  nose.  "I've 
been  in  Mr.  Law's  garden  over  at  Millbrook — perhaps 
you  don't  know  Mr.  Law's  folks,  though  ? — very  tine 
family  indeed,  several  young  ladies  there  ;  you  all  make 
me  think  of  'em  much.  I  've  spent  a  g-r-e-a-t  deal  o'  time 
there  ;  they  always  want  me  to  be  there  when  they  have 
company  from  abroad ;  they  're  folks  that  have  a  good 
deal  of  company,  you  see ;  I  always  arrange  the  tables 
for  them,  when  they  have  parties,  but  they  hav'n't  made 
any  paities  lately ;  got  quite  a  pretty  conservatory  there  ; 
think  you'd  like  to  see  it,  ladies  ;  you 'd  like  to  go  over 
there;  should  be  very  happy  to  introduce  you  to  the 
young  ladies,  as  they  're  particular  friends  of  mine." 

Here  he  came  up  to  the  surface  to  breathe,  and  all 
three  of  the  girls  simultaneously  lifted  their  eyes  to  him 
again.  Their  faces  had  been  red  at  first,  possibly  with 


174  -NONESUCH. 

embarrassment ;  now  they  could  scarcely  refrain  from  tit 
tering  outright  in  their  strange  visitor's  presence. 

"  Not  much  acquainted  about  here  yet,  I  conclude  ?" 
he  went  on.  "  Oh,  well ;  time  enough  yet.  Folks  here 
abouts  ain't  very  hard  to  get  acquainted  with,  as  you  '11 
find  out  for  yourselves.  But  I  've  heard  a  good  many 
say  they  'd  like  to  know  you  all ;  they  think  you  're  rather 
distant,  I  guess — ha !  ha !  ha !  But  I  s'pose  you  don't 
care  what  they  think ;  I  should  n't,  I  am  sure." 

Mary  assured  him  that  they  said  nothing  about  such 
things,  and  wished  to  say  nothing.  She  spoke  very 
curtly. 

"Oh,  well,"  said  he,  not  a  particle  daunted  by  her 
pointed  reproof,  "  then  I  've  nothing  to  say.  I  only 
thought  I  'd  walk  over  and  call  on  you,  and  look  round  and 
see  your  place  a  little.  I  have  so  many  acquaintances  in 
all  the  towns  here  and  there,  it 's  really  hard  getting 
round  to  them  ;  especially  as  I  have  to  go  on  foot  when  I 
can't  catch  a  ride  with  some  one  else,  or  take  the  stage 
between  one  town  and  another.  I  promised  the  Laws 
I  'd  come  over  there,  this  week ;  but  I  don't  see  how  I 
can,  though  they  're  very  fine  young  ladies,  I  assure  you. 
I  wish  you  'd  but  get  acquainted  with  'em.  I  will  intro 
duce  you  to  them,  some  time.  I  've  got  to  go  down  to 
Bradbury  as  soon 's  I  can  get  there,  to  see  Mr.  Perkins's 
folks ;  I  promised  'em.  Perhaps  you  don't  know  Mr. 
Perkins  ?  He  's  member  of  Congress  for  that  district, 
and  they  live  in  good  style  there,  I  can  assure  you.  I  've 
visited  there  a  great  deal.  His  daughter  Josephine  and 
me  ha'  always  been  intimate  friends  ;  nothing  more  than 
that,  you  understand  !  ha !  ha !  She  's  a  sweet  girl,  Jo 
sephine  is.  Ah,  but  you  ought  to  know  her !  so  gentle 
like,  so — so — so  nothing  at  all  but  goodness !  and  such 
angelic  ways !  Every  body  is  in  love  with  her,  and  I  'm 


NONESUCH.  175 

not  ashamed  to  say  I  am  myself!  ha! — ha! — ha!  Oh, 
yes ;  you  must  see  her,  surely.  Perhaps  you  'd  get  in 
vited  to  one  of  her  parties,  by  and  by,  for  she  has  a  good 
many  of  them !" 

"  Really !"  exclaimed  Mary.  "  Quite  a  con-sid-e-ra-tion, 
is  n't  it,  sir  ?"  . 

He  sent  his  fingers  a-rambling  swiftly,  like  frightened 
chickens,  through  the  bed  of  ringlets  atop  of  his  head, 
and  let  his  eyes  take  two  or  three  good  little  twinkles 
that  must  have  given  them  a  vast  deal  of  satisfaction. 

Martha  and  Ellen  could  not  help  laughing  in  each 
other's  faces. 

"  Yes — y-e-s,"  said  he,  quite  slowly,  stroking  his  glossy 
mustache  for  a  moment,  and  appearing  to  be  a  very  little 
ways  gone  in  thought ;  "  little  as  you  'd  think  it — Mr.  Per 
kins  being  a  member  of  Congress,  and  all  that — they  're 
not  aristocratic  folks  at  all,  I  can  tell  you  ;  they  're  plain 
people,  high  up  in  the  world  as  they  are.  I  like  them  all 
the  more  for  that.  I  don't  want  any  thing  to  do  with 
your  stuck-up  people — ha !  ha !  I  don't  make  any  pre 
tensions  myself,  and  I  'm  sure  it 's  not  very  pleasant  to 
see  others  do  it !  I  wish  I  was  going  to  be  in  town  here 
for  all  the  summer ;  but  I  can't,  for  I  've  made  an  engage 
ment  with  a  friend  to  meet  him  at  Saratoga  pretty  soon, 
as  soon  as  the  season  begins.  Ever  in  Saratoga  ?  Never 
was  myself,  but  have  heard  it  was  such  a  beautiful  place — 
perfectly  enchanting — perfectly  delightful !  And  the  com 
pany  that  flocks  there  !  and  the  parties  they  have  at  the 
great  hotels  ! — and  the  music,  and  the  dances,  and  waltzes, 
and  all  that !  Do  any  of  you  waltz,  ladies  ?  I  consider 
I  'm  something  of  a  waltzer  myself.  Very  fond  of  it, 
especially  if  you  happen  to  get  hold  of  an  agreeable  part 
ner,  ha !  ha !  But  yoxi  ought  to  go  to  Saratoga,  if  you  'vo 
never  been.  Hav'  n't  you  never,  neither  of  you  ?" 


176  NONESUCH. 

"  We  have  all  seen  the  place,"  answered  Mary  for  the 
rest,  her  lip  curling  with  irony. 

"Ah,  you  have,  then!  Of  course  I  needn't  say  any 
thing  about  it.  Need  n't  tell  you  what  I  've  seen  and 
done  there,  when  I  get  back !"  He  stared  at  them  va 
cantly,  as  if  they  had  suddenly  risen  in  his  estimation  by 
a  jumpbag  bound  of  at  least  a  hundred  feet.  "  Hope  I 
shall  have  a  good  time  there,  't  any  rate.  Wish  some 
of  you  were  going,  or  all  of  you.  Should  like  to  meet 
Avith  you  there.  Think  we  could  have  a  fine  time  of  it. 
Not  quite  so  lovely  there  as  'tis  here,  I  guess — ha !  ha ! 
What  do  you  think  of  the  town,  ladies  ?  Do  you  like 
your  new  location  ?  Got  used  to  it  yet  ?  You  're  pleas 
antly  situated  here,  I  declare.  And  your  garden  is  fine. 
How  beautiful  them  flowers  smell  out  in  the  bed  yonder ! 
What  do  you  call  'em  ?  Got  a  man  to  tend  your  garden, 
or  do  you  do  it  yourselves  ?  Garden  work  's  very  healthy 
work  for  ladies,  but  I  think  it  's  none  too  clean  for  their 
fair  hands,  ha !  ha  !" — and  he  carelessly  spread  out  and 
glanced  at  the  backs  of  his  own,  which,  by  the  by,  hardly 
held  their  own  by  comparison  with  the  whiteness  of  his 
linen  coat.  "  Mr.  Perkins  keeps  a  fine  garden,  and  so  do 
the  Laws.  They  have  gardeners,  I  believe.  Every 
thing  always  looks  nice  and  true ;  so  purty !" 

Martha  began  a  conversation  with  Ellen  about  some 
knitting  she  was  engaged  upon. 

"  What  kind  of  work  is  that  ?"  said  he,  indefatigable  as 
ever,  and  reaching  forward  in  his  seat  to  get  a  better 
view.  "  Oh,  it 's  knotting,  is  it  ?  Very  beautiful  work, 
so  soft  and  delicate  for  a  lady's  fingers.  Nothing  so  purty 
as  knotting.  A  friend  of  mine  does  a  good  deal  of  that ; 
Miss  Burr — a  very  particular  friend  she  is,  und  a  very  fine 
young  lady,  too.  Wish  you  knew  her ;  yon  'd  be  pleased 
with  the  acquaintance.  What  is  that  figure  you  're  work- 


NONESUCH.  177 

ing  at  there  ?  Perhaps  I  can  help  you  about  it ;  I  know 
something  about  such  things;  more 'n  folks  think.  I 
make  caps,  sometimes.  I  can  make  a  cap  as  handy  as 
any  woman.  Do  it  very  often,  always  make  Mrs.  Per 
kins's,  trimmin's  and  all.  She  says  she  don't  want  no 
better  hand.  I  guess  I  could  astonish  you  with  my  skill 
at  such  things !  And  vases,  and  baskets  of  pine-burrs, 
and  melon  seeds,  and  boxes  of  pasteboard  and  mosses, 
and  crosses,  and  pyramids  of  shells — out  of  red  putty  and 
little  sea-shells — you  've  seen  'em  ! — and  lounges,  and  ot 
tomans,  and  crickets,  and  every  thing  else!  There's 
only  a  little,  ladies,  that  I  can't  do ! — ha  !  ha !" 

"  You  must  be  a  very  useful  person  in  some  families," 
suggested  Mary,  dryly. 

"  Ah,  Miss  Rivers !  that 's  what  I  am  !  There  's  very 
few  that  can  well  beat  me  !  I  '11  take  you  into  Mrs.  Per 
kins's  parlors — she  has  two  parlors,  you  see — and  I  '11 
show  you  things  that  I  've  made,  and  that  I  've  fixed,  till 
you  '11  be  hardly  willing  to  believe  me." 

"  I  dare  say,"  returned  Mary. 

He  did  not  quite  comprehend  what  she  meant.  So  he 
sent  his  fingers  on  another  exploring  excursion  through 
his  bed  of  ringlets,  and  twinkled  his  eyes  at  her  vacantly. 
Then  he  resumed  his  rattle — 

"  Wish  the  people  'round  here  were  at  ah1  lively.  Dull 
est  folks  I  ever  did  see !  just  the  dullest !  Why  can't 
somebody  get  up  a  picnic  here,  once  in  a  while,  or  some 
thing  of  that  sort  ?  There  's  so  much  fun,  and  all  .that, 
to  be  had  in  the  woods,  running  'round  any  where  you 
want  to.  Ever  attend  many  picnics,  ladies  ?  Grand 
good  things,  ain't  they,  though  ?  Always  have  'em  over 
to  Millbrook,  'most  every  Fourth  of  July.  Never  enjoyed 
myself  so  much  in  all  my  life  as  Tdid  the  last  Fourth. 
Every  body  was  there,  and  they  had  every  thing  to  eat, 


178  NONESUCH. 

too.  I  helped  set  the  tables  ;  helped  ?  I  had  charge  of 
about  the  whole  of  it!  Every  body  admired  them  ;  and 
I  arranged  all  the  flowers  just  as  tastefully  as  I  could, 
tulips,  and  daffies,  and  roses,  and  geraniums,  and  hya 
cinths,  and  oh,  such  great  white  lilies  !  I  wish  you  could 
have  been  over  there  ;  you  'd  have  enjoyed  it  so  much  ! 

Mary  showed  symptoms  of  increasing  impatience.  She 
found  that  she  had  met  with  one  individual  whom  neither 
satire  nor  menace  itself — that  is,  such  gentle  and  reprov 
ing  menace  as  ladies  are  privileged  to  use — could  drive 
from  his  position.  A  person  more  perfectly  at  his  ease, 
and  more  thoroughly  indifferent  to  satirical  speeches,  the 
whole  country  round  could  not  have  furnished.  Addicted 
to  feminine  talk  and  feminine  pursuits,  he  was  ambitious  to 
become  distinguished  in  no  other.  Nothing  suited  him 
better  than  to  take  a  half-hour  or  so  for  the  purpose  of 
describing  the  dress  of  a  particular  young  lady  at  a  partic 
ular  ball,  soiree,  or  party.  In  the  enumeration  of  the 
long  list  of  ladies'  equipments,  embracing  those  from  the 
top  of  the  head  to  the  very  tip  of  the  foot,  he  energetic 
ally  put  forth  all  his  mental  powers,  and  reveled  in  the 
thought  that  his  familiarity  with  such  topics  made  his 
personal  presence  highly  desirable  in  every  little  social 
clique  that  was  formed. 

He  was  a  man-milliner.  He  was  a  hybrid  of  a  creature, 
like  nothing  at  all  that  had  ever  before  been  seen.  The 
more  pains  you  were  at  to  show  your  thorough  disgust  for 
him,  the  more  determined  he  seemed  that  you  should  be 
altogether  delighted  with  him.  If  you  spoke  chastising 
words  to  him — words  that  would  drive  any  ordinary  dog 
from  your  presence — he  simply  became  sycophantically 
meek,  and  held  himself  ready  to  lick  your  hand  whenever 
you  should  extend  it.  How  could  such  a  being  be  shaken 
off? 


NONESUCH.  179 

Mary  tried  satire — and  her  satire  was  sharp  stuff,  too 
— but  to  no  purpose.  Instead  of  feeling  in  the  least 
abashed  or  humiliated,  he  simply  bestowed  his  attention 
on  the  other  two,  as  if  he  would  leave  her  out  of  his  cal 
culation  entirely. 

Martha  was  rather  better-natured  about  it.  Perhaps 
she  had  a  little  more  tact  in  getting  along  with  such 
strangely-disagreeable  beings.  She  was  patient  with  him, 
even  while  his  presence  was  most  offensive.  The  abund 
ance  of  her  native  good-humor — blessed  gift  to  mortals ! 
— led  her  rather  to  enjoy  than  to  dissect  and  criticise. 
He  offered  her  a  fund  of  enjoyment.  It  was  quite  as  good 
as  a  raree  show  for  her.  So  she  sat  and  laughed,  some 
times  replying  to  the  hasty  interrogatories  of  the  strange 
gentleman,  and  sometimes  breaking  out  with  an  odd  and 
quizzical  remark  to  Ellen,  the  eyes  of  both  of  them  glis 
tening  with  nothing  in  the  world  but  pure  fun  alive. 

Mr.  Dandelly  was  by  profession — well,  he  was  a  little 
of  every  thing.  The  peculiar  requisites  to  success  in 
eveiy  known  human  calling,  if  his  own  ingenuous  state 
ments  were  to  be  received  without  a  suspicious  and 
naughty  reservation,  were  settled  and  centered  most 
strangely  in  him.  He  could  paint,  and  he  could  hang 
paper.  A  more  skillful  hand  with  a  fine  cambric  needle, 
laces,  ribbons,  and  the  like  of  these  things,  was  not  to  be 
discovered,  except  with  great  difficulty  and  after  travers 
ing  a  large  extent  of  territory.  And  he  was  all  the  time 
traveling.  How  he  managed  to  do  it  the  wisest  of  people 
did  n't  know.  Who  defrayed  his  expenses  was  a  problem 
more  difficult  of  satisfactory  solution  than  even  the  en 
tangling  and  brain-perplexing  hieroglyphics  on  the  case 
of  an  Egyptian  mummy.  There  was  no  one  that  he  did 
not  know,  and  hardly  a  spot  that  he  said  he  had  not  seen, 
He  was  most  happy  to  converse  on  subjects  of  all  natures, 


180  NONESUCH. 

and  not  less  ready  and  fluent  on  abstruse  than  on  every 
day  topics.  You  could  not  catch  him  in  the  trap  of  a  sur 
prise  ;  not  that  he  was  "  too  smart"  for  every  body,  but 
because  he  would  not  be  surprised.  He  had  no  concep 
tion  of  what  such  a  feeling,  with  the  attendant  feeling 
of  humility,  was. 

Whatever  might  be  the  uneasiness  of  the  girls  under 
this  unlooked-for  infliction,  he  was  not  at  all  troubled. 
He  had  enjoyed  nothing  more  for  a  long  time.  And  still 
lounging  in  his  chair,  and  still  holding  his  white  beaver  in 
his  hand,  he  regarded  the  persons,  the  language,  and  the 
whole  appearance  of  the  three  friends  with  a  coolness  that 
was  a  full  match  for  any  effrontery  ever  known  or  record 
ed.  It  was  not  until  Mary  finally  left  the  room,  and  re 
fused  stubbornly  to  return,  that  he  expressed  himself  as 
having  staid  longer  than  he  really  meant  to,  and  got  up 
to  go.  He  assured  them  he  should  make  them  another 
call  sometime  before  he  left  for  the  spring,  and  repeated 
his  wish  that  they  might  become  acquainted  with  the 
many  very  fine  friends  to  whom  he  always  stood  ready  to 
introduce  them. 

Bidding  them  good-afternoon,  he  hit  his  toe  against  the 
corner  of  the  outer  door,  crushed  his  hat  shockingly 
against  the  post,  scattered  his  fallen-down  ringlets  over 
his  eyes,  and  passed  out  through  the  gate  as  carelessly  as 
if  that  were  exactly  the  way  he  took  his  leave  every 
where  he  went. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE      OLD     APPLE-DEALER. 

ON  the  corner  of  one  of  the  city  thoroughfares  stood  a 
lean  and  pitiable  object,  the  picture  of  a  broken-hearted 
man.  He  looked  as  if  he  must  once  have  seen  better 
days,  faded  and  thin  as  his  garments  were,  and  wrinkled 
as  was  his  countenance.  His  limbs  were  small  and  atten 
uated  ;  his  coat  much  mended,  though  it  showed  signs  of 
having  been  in  the  hands  of  a  careful  and  experienced 
person,  who  well  knew  how  to  make  trifling  things  go  the 
furthest.  The  hat  he  wore  had  grown  old  and  venerable 
in  service,  much  of  the  nap  being  quite  gone,  and  a  dis 
tinct  mark  running  round  the  corner  of  the  crown.  He 
held  his  hands  clasped  together,  occasionally  rubbing  their 
dried  and  wrinkled  skin,  and  glanced  now  at  the  little 
stock  of  fruit  in  his  stall,  and  now  at  the  ceaseless  throng 
of  passers,  whose  feet  left  no  prints  upon  the  pavement. 

All  day  long  he  had  been  there  before  his  stall,  silent 
and  patient.  The  seal  of  a  great  sorrow  was  set  en  his 
forehead,  while  he  pondered  and  pondered  over  what  he 
saw.  When  the  noonday  sun  fell  hot  across  the  pave 
ment  he  retired  within  the  shade  of  the  great  stone  build 
ing  at  hand ;  and  there,  in  his  retirement,  he  kept  close 
counsel  with  his  harrowing  thoughts,  and  vainly  watched 
to  see  some  passer  stop  at  his  stall  for  a  few  pennies' 
worth  of  fruit.  As  the  afternoon  shadows  began  to  trail 


182  THE    OLD    APPLE-DEALER. 

thjgjr  lengths  along  the  street,  he  again  renewed  his  place 
by  his  stall,  and  appealed  by  his  silent  look  alone  to  the 
charitable  patronage  of  those  who  went  by. 

Nobody,  however,  seemed  to  think  of  him.  Nobody 
noticed  that  there  was  such  a  being  in  the  world.  He 
did  not  seem  to  count  as  much  as  one,  standing  there  so 
meekly.  If  it  had  been  a  beautiful  girl  now,  it  might 
have  been  different*  But  an  old  man,  in  seedy  garments, 
a  bad  hat  on  his  head,  and  wrinkles  deeply  furrowed  over 
his  face — that  was  another  thing.  Pity  is  a  something 
that  needs  a  little  coaxing.  Charity  is  not  always  what  it 
pretends  to  be,  either  ;  sometimes  rooting  itself  in  the 
hot-bed  of  the  passions,  and  taking  the  form  of  selfishness, 
and  even  of  crime. 

The  patient  man  looked  up  the  street  and  down  the 
street.  It  was  the  time  when  the  crowds  Avere  going 
home  for  the  night,  and  he  knew  that  his  prospects  of 
trade  were  now  every  moment  dwindling  away.  And 
hoping  still  for  the  best,  he  consoled  his  spirits  with  his 
usual  study  of  the  faces  and  figures  that  time  had  made 
familiar  to  his  gaze. 

That  man  in  nankeen  trowsers  and  glossy  black  frock 
coat,  striking  his  ivory-headed  cane  so  heavily  on  the  pave 
ment,  and  sometimes  humming  snatches  of  old  and  homely 
tunes — he  knew  that  he  was  a  large  dealer  in  wool.  His 
rotund  form,  his  broad  shoulders,  his  cheeks  streaked 
richly  with  red,  all  proved  that  he  loved  the  delights  of 
the  table  and  did  not  slightly  pay  his  devotions  thereto. 
There  came  another ;  he  knew  him  to  be  an  auctioneer. 
His  eyes  showed  it.  His  lips,  and  cheeks,  and  whiskers, 
and  thick  double-chin  showed  it  too.  He  played  with 
his  massy  watch-seals,  appearing  to  look  neither  to  the 
right  hand  nor  the  left,  but  crowding  his  way  straight 
along  home.  And  then  a  man  whom  he  knew  to  be  a 


THE    OLD    APPLE-DEALER.  183 

shipper,'  an  extensive  merchant,  whose  name  and  fame 
had  gone  across  the  waste  of  the  great  waters.  He  was 
slight  and  spare.  His  eyes  were  small,  and  blue,  and 
very  expressive.  His  thin  and  colorless  lips  were  tightly 
shut,  as  if  he  were  at  that  moment  in  the  act  of  carrying 
forward  a  bold  determination.  The  apple  dealer  often 
followed  him  in  his  thoughts  for  a  long  while,  clothing 
his  character  with  many  of  the  most  vivid  colorings  an 
active  imagination  could  supply. 

They  came  now  in  streams  and  torrents,  and  now  singly 
and  in  regular  file.  Every  one  had  his  eyes  fixed  ap 
parently  upon  some  object  before  him.  The  faces  of  all 
wore  the  deep  brand  of  business.  None  seemed  to  be 
looking  forward  to  blissful  reunions  in  the  household,  to 
pleasant  summer  evening  gatherings  on  retired  piazzas  in 
the  rear  of  their  dwellings,  or  the  kiss  and  the  embrace 
of  loving  and  confiding  children.  There  was  the  hard 
ness  of  the  reality  on  every  countenance.  None  went 
smiling  by.  None  averted  their  faces  to  glance  in  at  the 
windows,  or  to  exchange  pleasant  looks  with  friends. 
If  two  spoke,  they  did  so  in  a  hard,  dry  way,  and  pushed 
on  as  if  not  a  moment  was  to  be  lost.  The  only  sounds 
that  fell  on  the  poor  man's  ears  were  the  rolling  and  rat 
tling  of  the  carts  and  omnibuses — and  the  everlasting 
shuffle — shuffle — shuffle  of  feet  upon  the  pavement.  He 
threw  his  eyes  up  at  the  cornice  of  a  high  building  on  the 
other  side  of  the  street,  and  there  saw  the  sun  gilding 
every  object  with  its  own  glory  ;  then  he  dropped  them 
to  the  ground  again,  and  saw  the  darkened,  hardened, 
selfish  countenances  of  his  fellow-creatures,  and  he  heaved 
a  deep,  a  long  sigh,  in  spite  of  himself. 

At  last  the  throng  began  to  diminish.  The  street  was 
putting  on  the  quiet  of  evening,  and  people  went  by  but 
scatteringly.  No  one  had  stopped  to  make  ever  so 


184  THE    OLD    APPLE-DEALER. 

trifling  a  purchase  ;  no  being  of  all  that  great  crowd  had 
thought  of  the  wants  of  the  poor  man's  heart.  He  was 
about  to  take  away  his  stock  in  trade  for  the  night,  de 
sponding  and  unhappy. 

"  What  shall  I  come  to  !"  exclaimed  he,  half  aloud,  still 
looking  up  and  down  the  street,  and  hoping  even  against 
hope  itself.  "  I  can't  get  along  so.  I  must  do  something 
else.  But  what  shall  I  do  ?" 

As  if  she  had  heard  his  self-questioning,  a  girl  with  a 
pale  face,  but  bright  with  the  pleasant  feelings  that  nestled 
about  her  heart,  jogged  his  elbow  just  at  that-  moment, 
saying  as  she  did  so ! 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Brindall !  you  hav'n't  sold  quite  all  your 
fruit  yet,  have  you?  Well,  I  am  glad  enough  of  it,  for  I 
want  some  good  nice  apples,  and  here  they  are,  sure 
enough,  are  n't  they  ?  Well  now,  how  much  for  half  a 
dozen  of  these  best  ones  ?  Here  's  your  money  for  them. 
Hav'n't  had  as  good  luck  as  usual,  to-day,  have  you  ? 
Oh  well,  I  would  n't  be  down-hearted  about  it,  I  'm  sure. 
Brighter  days  ah'ead,  you  know.  Come,  Mr.  Brindall, 
how  much  for  these  ?" 

The  dealer  in  fruit  looked  at  her  a  minute  out  of  tearful 
eyes,  and  taking  her  gently  by  the  arm,  said,  "  How  can 
I  ask  you  any  thing  for  them  ?  I  've  sold  little  enough 
to-day,  I  know ;  but  if  I  never  expected  to  receive  an 
other  cent,  how  could  I  take  money  from  you  ?  You  've 
been  too  good  to  me  already,  Fanny  !" 

"  Oh,  well,  but  we  '11  say  nothing  now  about  that.  I  've 
done  nothing  that  I  'm  ashamed  of,  and  nothing  that  I 
wouldn't  be  very  glad  to  do  again.  It  isn't  much  that's 
worth  talking  about.  There  ;  I  '11  take  these,  Mr.  Brin 
dall,  if  you  '11  let  me  ;  how  much  ?  Will  that  pay  you  ?" 
and  she  handed  him  twenty  cents  in  two  silver  pieces. 

"  Pay  me  ?     Yes,  Fanny.     I  don't  want  to  be  paid  in 


THE     OLD     APPLE-DEALER.  185 

such  a  way,  though.  I  'm  not  going  to  take  your  money 
from  you ;  it 's  hardly  enough  earned,  Heaven  knows.  I 
should  feel  myself  almost  guilty  of  robbery  if  I  did  such 
a  thing  as  that.  No,  Fanny  ;  you  're  perfectly  welcome 
to  them,  and  as  many  more  as  you  like." 

"  But  I  can't  take  them  unless  you  let  me  pay  for  them. 
Is  there  money  enough  ?"  said  she,  again  taking  up  the 
bright  pieces  she  had  laid  down  on  his  little  stand. 

"  Money  enough  ?  Yes,  and  a  good  deal  more,  too. 
I  can't  take  that,  at  any  rate.  Don't  make  me  take  any, 
I  beg  of  you." 

But  to  this  she  would  not  listen.  Unless  he  took  the 
full  price  for  his  fruit,  she  refused  to  have  any  thing  to  do 
with  the  purchase.  And  he  was  obliged  to  yield,  charg 
ing  her  two  cents  apiece  for  the  large  last  year's  green 
ings,  while  she  finally  concluded  that  she  would  take  ten, 
just  her  money's  worth.  He  offered  to  throw  in  a  couple 
more,  to  make  out  a  full  dozen ;  but  she  firmly  declined 
receiving  them,  saying  that  she  would  have  to  ask  him  to 
help  eat  what  she  had  bought  already. 

"And  now  if  you  're  ready,"  said  she,  pulling  together 
her  little  shawl,  "  why  not  go  home  with  me  ?  You  '11 
hardly  find  much  more  custom  to-day.  It 's  getting  to 
ward  evening,  and  you  look  tired  besides.  Come,  Mr. 
Brindall,  why  not  go  now  ?" 

He  thought  of  it  a  half  minute,  and  then  concluded  that 
he  would.  So  he  swept  his  little  stock  in  trade  into  his 
basket,  and  started  along  with  his  youthful  friend  and 
sympathizer. 

A  fair  face  was  the  young  girl's,  yet  pallid  almost  to 
frightfulness.  Her  short  life  had  had  nothing  of  the 
dream  in  it  yet ;  it  had  been  full  of  nothing  but  grinding 
and  wearing  realities.  It  had  been  one  long  continuous 
"  stitch — stitch — stitch ;"  the  needle  constantly  going — 


186  THE     OLD     APPLE-DE  ALEB. 

the  thread  drawing  steadily  through — the  Aveary  head 
bent  down  to  the  work,  as  if  eyes,  heart,  and  brain  must 
all  be  on  it  at  the  same  moment.  She  was  tidily,  but 
cheaply  clad,  in  a  neat  and  tasteful  print,  with  a  plain 
hat  on  her  head,  and  a  pretty  shawl  over  her  shoulders  ; 
but  all  the  dressing  and  decking  in  the  world  would  not 
have  helped  to  express  that  strange  medley  of  opposite 
feelings,  that  made  her  face  little  less  than  a  speaking 
book.  Grief  and  joy  sat  on  that  youthful  countenance 
together,  and  so  did  anxiety  and  hope,  and  love  and  fear ; 
and  extreme  tenderness  of  feeling,  and  high  and  undying 
resolution.  It  was  a  strange  face  for  so  interesting  an 
one ;  and  beneath  the  shade  of  that  cheap  straw,  it  was 
made  to  express  what  in  all  likelihood  it  would  not  be 
neath  silk,  crape,  or  lawn. 

They  chatted,  or  rather  she  chatted,  as  they  went  along 
the  street  homeward,  anxious  to  raise  her  companion's 
drooping  spirits.  She  talked  of  the  many  objects  that  here 
and  there  attracted  her  ;  perhaps  of  no  great  importance 
in  themselves,  but  just  such  trifles  as  might  suffice  to  fill 
his  troubled  mind  with  other  and  less  grievous  thoughts. 
Sometimes  he  replied  to  her,  and  sometimes  he  did  not. 
More  than  one  person  turned  round  to  look  after  a  couple 
so  oddly  matched,  and  more  than  one  person,  in  a  mo 
ment  afterward,  dismissed  the  vision  from  his  mind  al 
together.  So  goes  the  world  with  us  all.  Now  we  go, 
as  the  song  says,  up — up — up  ;  and  now  we  go  down — 
down — down.  The  tips  never  stop  long  to  throw  away 
pity  on  the  downs.  It  makes  them  too  dizzy,  the  mere 
contemplation  of  their  own  unexpected  height. 

When  they  reached  the  end  of  their  walk,  the  man  ap 
peared  to  be  tired  enough.  He  could  hardly  lug  his 
basket  of  fruit  up  the  steps. 

They  came  to  a  gloomy  and  darkened  area,  where  an 


THE     OLD    APPLE-DEALER.  187 

outside  flight  of  wooden  stairs  conducted  them  to  the 
second  story  of  a  back  building,  on  which  floor  they  lived. 
Fanny  took  the  key  from  her  pocket,  unlocked  the  door, 
and  led  the  way  in. 

"  Now  I  want  you  to  come  and  get  your  tea  just  as 
soon  as  you  can,  Mr.  Brindall,"  said  she ;  "  for  I  know 
you  must  be  tired,  and  hungry,  too.  So  don't  wait  to  fix 
much  ;  my  supper  's.  all  ready  now." 

"  But  I  feel  as  if  I  had  n't  earned  my  supper,"  said  he, 
turning  round  upon  her  with  his  hand  still  on  the  latch  of 
his  door. 

"  Well,  if  you  have  n't,  I  have,  then  ;  and  so  I  invite  you 
to  come  and  sit  down  with  me.  Don't  wait,  now.  I  'm 
expecting  you  right  along."  And  she  went  into  the 
apartment  opposite  the  one  he  entered. 

It  was  a  snug  and  pretty  room,  if  it  did  look  out  on 
nothing  but  an  area.  She  opened  the  windows,  to  let  in 
the  cool  air  of  the  evening.  As  she  moved  briskly  around 
the  apartment,  her  eyes  sparkled  with  pleasure,  while  her 
lips  insisted  on  making  melody  to  the  joyful  beating  of 
her  heart.  She  was  only  a  poor  friendless  seamstress, 
to  be  sure ;  simply  one  of  these  weary  stitchers  whose 
stitches  carry  them  too  soon  to  their  quiet  graves ;  yet 
she  was  happy,  and  that  was  enough.  She  had  many 
a-time  seen  sadder  female  faces,  young  faces,  too,  looking 
out  into  the  sfreets  through  large  and  costly  windows, 
than  hers  had  ever  been  when  she  looked  out  in  chill 
wintery  afternoons  into  the  cramped  little  court  that 
formed  her  prospect. 

So,  singing  and  smiling,  she  went  on  with  her  simple 
preparations  for  supper.  Mr.  Brindall  came  in,  rubbing 
his  hands  slowly  together,  and  sat  down  at  the  window. 
Fanny  did  all  she  could  to  cheer  him  up,  talking  to  him 
and  putting  him  questions  ;  till  all  things  were  in  readi- 


188  THE    OLD     APPLE-DEALER. 

ness  at  last,  and  they  moved  up  to  the  table,  taking  seats 
opposite  each  other. 

"This  cup  of  tea,  now,"  said  she,  in  a  pleasant  tone  that 
was  quite  bewitching,  "  is  going  to  do  you  a  great  deal  of 
good,  Mr.  Brindall ;  and  you  must  n't  say  it  is  n't.  I  want 
you  to  drink  it  all,  and  then  pass  your  cup  for  more.  Now 
I'll  thank  you  for  the  bread,  if  you  please.  I  made  this 
bread  myself;  I'd  got  tired  of  baker's  bread,  and  thought 
you  must  be  tired  of  it  by  this  time,  too.  And  there  is 
some  nice,  fresh,  yellow  butter ;  it  looks  as  if  it  had  come 
from  the  pleasant  country  this  very  day.  Help  yourself 
now,  Mr.  Brindall.  I  sha'n't  like  it  at  all,  if  you  don't  make 
a  good  hearty  meal.  These  are  long  days,  you  know,  espe 
cially  for  those  who  are  gone  from  morning  till  night." 

"  Ah,  yes,  dear  Miss  Fanny !  Long  days  indeed  !  But 
if  I  could  but  do  a  little  better,  they'd  seem  all  the  shorter. 
Nothing  seems  to  go  right  with  me.  The  curse  is  not 
off  of  me  yet,  I  fear  !  I  can't  tell  any  body  what  it  is  ;  but 
this  strange — strange  feeling ;  it  is  eating  my  heart  away  ; 
it  makes  me  despondent  all  the  time  ;  my  hopes  are  gone, 
and  every  thing  else  seems  to  have  gone  with  them." 

"  You  mustn't  talk  so,  Mr.  Brindall,"  said  Fanny ;  "  I 
insist  upon  it,  you  must  n't.  It  does  you  no  good.  It 
does  you  a  great  deal  of  hurt.  Now  please  eat  your 
supper,  will  you  ?  Look  at  the  bright  side  of  things. 
You  've  seen  the  dark  side  long  enough." 

"  Bless  you,  Miss  Fanny,"  he  returned,  feelingly,  "  it  is 
only  yourself  that  bids  me  hope  for  better  things.  Why 
will  no  one  else  do  so  ?  Why  is  the  world  so  closely 
leagued  together  against — against — you  know  what  I 
mean,  Fanny !  you  know  what  I  mean !"  and  the  tears 
stood  in  his  eyes,  while  he  took  another  piece  of  white 
and  nice  bread  from  the  plate  she  again  passed  him. 

"  How  do  you  know  that  people  are  leagued  against 


THE     OLD    APPLE-DEALER.  189 

you,  Mr.  Brindall?  How  do  you  know  it  isn't  all  sus 
picion  ?  Don't  you  judge  the  world  too  hard,  now  ?" 

"And  what  if  I  really  should?  Could  I  be  more  un 
charitable  to  others  than  they  have  been  to  me  ?  Ah, 
Miss  Fanny !  how  very  little  you  know  about  these 
things,  after  all !" 

"  Well,  if  I  know  so  little  about  matters  that  make  one 
so  very  unhappy,  why,  I  am  glad  of  it ;  that's  all.  And 
I  hope  I  shall  know  less,  before  I  do  more.  Now  don't 
let  such  things  spoil  your  appetite,  Mr.  Brindall.  I 
sha'n't  feel  as  if  I  was  a  good  housekeeper,  unless  you  do 
more  justice  to  my  supper.  Come,  now,  eat  all  you  can. 
It 's  been  a  long  day  for  you,  you  know." 

"Yes,  and  for  yourself  as  well,  I  should  think,"  added  he. 
"  What  do  you  do  here  but  work — work — work,  all  day 
long,  from  early  morning  till  dark  again  ? — and  work,  too, 
to  support  me — a  hearty,  healthy  man !  I  dependent  on  a 
poor  girl  like  youi'self !  Oh,  shame  on  me,  that  it  is  so !" 
"  It 's  no  such  a  thing,  Mr.  Brindall ;  and  you  know  it  isn't ! 
I  don't  support  you.  You  support  yourself.  I  only  made 
a  little  arrangement  with  you  about  your  board ;  but  what 
is  that  ?  What  is  it  more  than  what  people  do  every  day  in 
the  week  ?  You  pay  your  board,  don't  you,  Mr.  Brindall?" 

"  Well,  I  want  to ;  but  I  'm  afraid  that  '11  be  about  all 
there  is  to  it.  Yes;  I  try  to  pay  my  board — that  is,  when 
I  can." 

"  And  when  you  can't,  what  is  the  use  of  having  any 
thing  said  about  it  ?  If  you  can't,  you  can't ;  and  there 's 
HJie  end  of  it.  But  I  'm  sure,  Mr.  Brindall,  you  have  done 
very  well,  so  far." 

"  But  I  sometimes  think  I  do  wrong  in  accepting  your 
kindness  so  freely.  I  'm  sure,  I  don't  know  when  or  how 
I  can  return  it.  It' s  hardly  right  for  me  to  take  advan 
tage  in  this  way  of  another's  generosity." 


190  THE     OLD    APPLE-DEALEK. 

"  When  I'm  not  satisfied,  you  may  depend  on  my  let 
ting  you  know  it,"  said  she.  "  I  certainly  shall  then,  but 
not  before.  But  what  is  the  reason  of  so  much  anxiety 
about  such  trifling  things  ?  Here  I  live,  without  a  single 
friend  in  the  world,  unless  it  is  yourself.  It 's  very  nat 
ural  that  I  should  like  at  least  one  friend,  I  think ;  is  n't 
it  ?  And  I  feel  toward  you  as  if  I  could  call  you  '  father. 
Really,  now,  I  believe  I  will  call  you  father  for  the  fu 
ture.  I  wonder  I  had  n't  thought  of  it  before !  And 
will  you  call  me  your  daughter  ?" 

He  slowly  set  down  the  cup  of  tea  he  held  in  his  hand, 
looked  at  her  across  the  table  with  grateful  eyes,  and  said 
nothing.  He  would  have  spoken,  but  his  lips  trembled. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  both  eyes  and  eiirs  were  deceiving 
him.  He  thought  it  could  not  be  possible — he  the  broken 
and  bowed  man,  the  outcast,  the  scorned  and  neglected 
one  of  mankind,  voluntarily  called  by  that  endearing 
title  "  father,"  once  more,  and  by  one  from  whom,  of  all 
others,  he  would  least  have  expected  sympathy !  Ah,  yes, 
Mr.  Brindall ;  but  it  is  only  from  those  who  themselves 
have  at  some  time  suffered,  that  the  truest  and  the  deepest 
sympathy  flows.  It  takes  reality  itself  to  give  to  sympathy 
its  power.  There  is  no  mere  theory  about  it ;  it  must  be  a 
living,  active,  magnetic,  searching  feeling ;  or  it  is  nothing. 

"  And  I  am  sure,"  she  went  on  in  her  remarkably  pleas 
ant  way,  "  that  now  that  we  have  made  a  single  family  of 
it,  we  shall  get  on  all  the  better.  You  can  provide  what 
you  feel  able,  you  know ;  and  I  will  supply  the  rest. 
We  '11  have  a  common  stock  of  all  our  goods.  Won't 
that  be  a  good  way  for  us,  Mr.  Brindall  ?  You  shall  at 
tend  to  business  out  of  doors,  and  my  place  shall  be  in 
the  house  here ;  and  you  shall  see  what  a  famous  house, 
keeper  I  '11  make.  I  shall  take  all  the  more  pains,  now 
I  've  got  a  new  father  !" 


THE     OLD    APPLE-DEALER.  191 

"  You  should  n't  work  as  hard  as  you  do,  dear  Fanny," 
Baid  he,  slowly  shaking  his  head.  "  It  wears  on  you — it 
wears  on  you.  I  see  it,  if  you  don't." 

"  Why,  what  nonsense  that  is,  father  !"  She  could  not 
help  smiling  as  she  spoke  the  word.  "  What  perfect  non 
sense  !  Work  too  hard  ?  I  do  no  such  thing.  Here  I 
sit  all  day  and  do  nothing  but  sew.  Occasionally  I  stop 
to  take  care  of  my  cat,  or  to  tend  my  two  or  three  flower 
pots  ;  and  now  and  then  I  snatch  a  half-hour  to  go  out  for 
a  little  walk  through  the  pleasantest  streets ;  for  poor  as 
I  feel  that  I  am  myself,  I  do  love  to  see  the  faces  and  the 
dresses  of  beautiful  ladies  as  they  go  by,  though  I  know 
they  would  n't  take  any  notice  of  me,  or  even  care 
whether  I  was  in  the  world  or  not.  There  's  many  a  face 
that  I  've  grown  familiar  with  already,  only  from  meeting 
it  in  the  street ;  and  don't  you  think  I  can  feel  that  its 
pleasant  smile  is  for  me,  if  I  Avish  to  think  so  ?  Why 
can't  I  enjoy  what  I  see  as  well  as  those  for  whom  such 
things  are  only  meant  ?" 

This  was  the  gleam  of  a  new  philosophy  to  the  fruit- 
dealer.  The  pleasant  dawn  of  optimism  was  streaming 
over  his  soul. 

"  Then  I  have  to  go  and  get  my  work,"  she  continued, 
"  and  carry  it  back  again :  that  gives  me  a  little  fresh  ex 
ercise,  too.  So  that,  put  this  and  that  together,  I  get 
quite  all  the  variety  I  nged,  and  I  try  to  be  happy.  I 
believe  I  am  happy.  Why  can't  you  be,  father  ?" 

The  memory  of  the  past  rushed  over  him,  and  his 
heart  seemed  pricked  cruelly  with  a  thousand  thorns. 
Oh,  if  he  had  but  the  freshness,  and  innocence,  and  sim 
plicity  of  this  poor,  friendless  girl,  he  thought  that  noth 
ing  in  the  wide  world  would  be  wanting  !  And  he  tried 
to  see  his  way  through  the  gloom  that  hemmed  him  in 
on  every  side. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

TO-MORKOW. 

ELLEN  and  the  girls  were  on  one  of  their  frequent  ram 
bles  again,  scouring  the  country  for  its  beauties  and  its 
pleasures.  No  summer  had  seemed  half  so  pleasant  be 
fore,  even  to  the  not  altogether  satisfied  heart  of  Mary. 
There  was  such  a  sense  of  freedom  and  freshness  in  their 
daily  life  ;  such  a  wild  and  unfettered  play  to  their  spirits ; 
such  a  constant  geniality  in  their  feelings ;  so  little  ob 
struction  to  the  various  plans  they  formed  for  their  en 
joyment  ;  and  so  much  newness  and  breadth  in  their 
very  simplest  pleasures.  Their  hearts  beat  more  health 
ily,  and  they  could  not  help  feeling  it. 

They  called,  as  usual,  at  the  little  cottage  of  Alice  Mor 
row  for  a  few  moments,  where  they  severally  took  as 
much  interest  in  the  dumb  girl  as  ever :  conversing  with 
her  by  means  of  her  little  slate ;  accepting  bunches  of 
simple,  domestic  flowers  at  hefyhands ;  resting  themselves 
in  the  retreat  of  her  cozy  little  parlor ;  and  making  her 
face  alive  with  the  deep  happiness  that  welled  up  from 
her  heart.  Ellen  betrayed  the  same  emotion  she  had  be 
fore  shown  in  the  presence  of  the  mute ;  and  Martha 
noticed  and  pondered  secretly  upon  it,  wondering  what  it 
could  all  mean.  And  when  she  took  her  leave  it  was  by 
no  means  in  the  same  manner  that  the  sisters  took  theirs: 
she  meant  much  more  than  she  expressed  merely  by  her 


TO-MORROW.  193 

smile,  and  by  the  tender  pressure  of  her  hand.  But  what 
it  was — it  was  this  that  so  puzzled  and  perplexed  her 
friend  Martha. 

Leaving  the  house  they  took  the  road  off  the  main 
street,  down  where  the  little  brook  crossed  it,  and  Avhere 
they  stood  when  Mr.  Holliday  climbed  the  wall  on  his 
return  from  his  fishing  excursion.  "  Perhaps  he  will  be 
here  again,"  suggested  Mary,  laughing ;  and  Martha 
really  "  hoped  he  would."  They  passed  the  brook,  how 
ever,  without  seeing  him.  They  went  forward,  and  began 
to  climb  an  ascent  up  which  the  narrow  road  conducted 
them ;  and  gaining  the  top,  each  one  immediately  expressed 
a  wish  to  sit  down  in  the  shade  somewhere  till  she  could 
get  breath  again.  Martha,  as  usual,  took  the  business  of 
prospecting  upon  herself,  and  looked  diligently  around  for 
a  good  broad-branching  tree,  with  flat  stones,  moss  and 
grass  in  its  shadow.  This  she  was  not  very  long  in  find 
ing  ;  and  calling  the  others  to  her,  they  sat  down  under 
the  leafy  bows  of  a  beautiful  rock-maple,  and  untied 
their  hats,  suffering  them  to  hang  negligently  off  their 
shoulders. 

"  I  like  this,"  said  Martha. 

"What  is  that  you  like  so  very  much  ?"  asked  her  sister, 
spreading  out  her  handkerchief  over  the  dark  green  moss. 
"  Come,  let  us  know  before  we  begin,  lest  we  some  of  us 
are  caught  admiring  the  wrong  thing."  And  she  followed 
up  her  pleasant  banter  with  a  laugh,  that  beneath  the  wide- 
spreading  tree  sounded  uncommonly  musical. 

"  Why,"  said  Martha,  "  every  thing ;  this  shade,  so  cool 
and  grateful  after  our  walk  ;  the  landscape,  reaching 
away  over  the  tops  of  these  trees  below  us,  and  stretch 
ing  back — back — back  across  the  far-off  meadows,  till  it 
melts  in  the  deep  blue  of  the  sky.  And  a  thousand  other 
things — why,  Mary,  you  are  really  getting  foolish,  you 

9 


194  TO-MORKOW. 

make  so  much  nonsensical  talk  about  my  taste  for  nature ; 
just  as  if  you  had  none  of  your  own  ! — Don't  you  think 
this  is  pleasant  ?"  she  asked  Ellen. 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  she  answered  ;  "  beautiful ;  the  whole 
of  it  beautiful !" 

"Just  think  how  much  all  this  wood  might  bring  to  its 
owner,"  persisted  Mary,  "  if  he  only  had  it  in  town  ! 
What  a  pretty  pile  of  money  he  suffers  to  remain  out  of 
doors  here  all  night !" 

Ellen  and  Martha  exchanged  glances,  looked  round  in 
Mary's  face,  and  all  three  broke  out  in  low  laughter. 

"  Mary,"  said  her  sister,  "  ho.w  silly  you  talk  !  Do  pray 
try  to  see  something  besides  profits  and  losses  !  One 
would  tljink  you  were  about' to  embark  in  the  wood  and 
coal  business,  or  set  up  in  your  name  a  lumber-yard ! 
Now  here 's  a  pretty  bit  of  nature — " 

"  A  pretty  big  bit,  you  should  have  said !" 

"  Yes,  a  beautiful  landscape ;  something  that  is  calcu 
lated  to  delight  the  eyes  and  feast  the  soul.  Can't  you 
carry  a  little  food  to  your  soul  through  your  eyes  for 
once  ?" 

"  But  that  little  stream  yonder,"  continued  Mary, 
tantalizingly — "  don't  you  think  it 's  a  very  great  waste 
of  water,  especially  when  a  good  economist  might  put  its 
shoulder  to  a  wheel,  and  set  a-going  a  saw-mill  and  a 
grist-mill?  You  see,  Ellen,  I  have  learned  all  about  these 
horrid  coarse  names  since  I  have  been  in  the  country." 

"  I  'm  sure,'*  pleasantly  returned  Ellen,  "  I  should  wish 
to  know  them  all ;  there  's  nothing  in  a  new  place  like  this 
that  I  should  n't  be  trying  all  the  time  to  find  out." 

"  You  'd  have  your  hands  full  then  very  soon,  I  can 
assure  you.  But  if  you  could  do  only  one  half  as  well  in 
that  occupation  as  the  people  about  yo*u  do,  your  head 
•would  be  fuller  of  foets,  and  a  good  many  things  that 


TO-MOKROW.  195 

are  not  facts,  than  any  Bodleian  library  !  You  never  saw 
people  any  wh«re  that  know  as  much  as  they  do  here 
abouts.  Sometimes,  though,  they  engage  in  the  pursuit 
of  knowledge  under  difficulties!" 

"  Hush,  Mary,"  gently  reproved  her  sister.  "  As  long 
as  we  live  here,  don't  let 's  get  the  ill-will  of  the  people 
by  any  hard  speeches.  If  any  one  is  to  say  hard  things 
let  it  be  somebody  else  but  you  or  me." 

"  Say  hard  things  !  I  can  exercise  my  simple  right  of 
criticism,  I  suppose  ?  You  would  n't  have  me — " 

"  Good  afternoon,  ladies !  I  hardly  knew  Avho  you 
were,  for  a  time.  It 's  a  "fine  day  !'^ 

All  sat  up  straight,  elevated  their  heads,  and  gazed 
around  them  in  blank  astonishment.  Mary  broke  off  ex 
actly  in  the  middle  of  her  speech,  and  uttered  a  half-sup 
pressed  cry  of — "  Mercy !" 

They  saw  no  one  on  any  one  side.  They  heard  no 
footsteps,  listen  as  intently  as  they  could.  The  voice — 
which  was  plainly  that  of  a  man,  seemed  to  come  neither 
from  the  east  or  the  west — the  north  or  the  south.  Yet 
it  was  a  voice,  and  a  human  voice  ;  of  that  there  could 
be  no  possible  doubt.  Flesh  and  blood  were  certainly  re 
lated  to  it,  the  supernatural  construction  being  quite  out 
of  the  question. 

"  Mercy  !"  again  cried  Mary,  an.d  louder  than  before ; 
"  what 's  this  ?  What  is  it  ?" 

"What's  what?"  asked  Ellen. 

"  What  ?"  echoed  Martha. 

Hardly  had  they  time  to  put  the  brief  interrogatory 
before  both  joined  in  the  exclamation  themselves ;  and 
they  threw  their  eyes  up  altogether  to  know  what  was 
the  meaning  of  this  shower  of  twigs,  leaves,  bits  of  bark, 
and  branches. 

Six  bright  eyes  directed"  at  the  same  moment,  like  a 


196  TO-MOKROW. 

blazing  battery,  up  into  the  boughs  of  a  maple-tree! 
And  so  sure  of  their  aim,  too ! 

They  brought  down  the  game  at  the  very  first  fire. 
The  figure  of  a  man  came  lumbering  down  from  bough 
to  bough,  some  of  the  smaller  ones  bending  dangerously 
beneath  his  weight,  and  finally  dropped  with  an  emphatic 
bump  on  the  ground  at  their  feet. 

"  Good  afternoon,  ladies,"  saluted  he,  straightening 
himself  up  again  and  brushing  the  tangled  hair  off  his 
forehead.  ,"  Guess,  I  've  rather  surprised  you ;  could  n't 
well  help  it,  however  ;  trust  you  '11  excuse  me  for  causing 
you  any  alarm.  As  I  had  the*  pleasure  of  remarking 
above  stairs  just  now — it  's  quite  a  fine  day  !" 

Started  to  their  feet  with  a  suddenness  they  could  not 
have  believed  possible,  the  three  girls  stood  confronting 
Mr.  Arthur  Holliday. 

There  was  such  a  curious  blending  of  the  modest  and 
the  comic  in  the  expression  of  the  young  man's  counte 
nance  that  it  must  have  raised  a  smile  whether  he  would 
or  not.  He  looked  as  if  he  felt  sorry  for  interrupting 
their  quiet  pleasure,  and  yet  extremely  glad  to  have 
fallen  in,  thus  fortunately,  with  their  company. 

"  I  was  seated  up  there  in  one  of  my  air-castles,"  said 
he,  "  reading  and  feasting  my  eyes  with  the  scenery.  This 
tree,  happens  to  be  one  of  my  few  favorites  hereabouts  ; 
I  have  several  such,  and  I  can  see  one  from  the  leafy  top 
of  another.  Now,  Miss  Mary,  shall  I  not  assist  you  up, 
by  the  winding  stairway,  into  the  chambers  of  my  castle  ? 
Just  go  up  after  me,  and  let  me  show  you  what  a  fine 
look-out  I  have  from  the  summit.  And  the  air  up  there 
is  so  fresh  and  pure  !  Come  ;  I  really  think  you  will  like 
it!" 

Mary  wished  to  be  excused  from  an  ascent  so  perilous; 
but  it  is  hardly  safe  to  assert  that  if  he  had  extended  the 


TO-MORROW.  197 

same  invitation  to  her  sister  Martha — which  he  seemed  to 
know  better  than  to  do — she  would  not  have  accepted  it 
on  the  instant,  and  gone  straight  up  after  him  to  his  eyrie 
among  the  lofty  maple  leaves. 

Recovered  a  little  from  their  affright,  and  their  ordin 
ary  humor  being  quite  restored,  they  started  on  again  in 
their  walk,  accepting  very  gladly  the  services  of  the 
young  author  as  an  escort.  They  turned  their  steps 
backward,  over  the  ground  they  had  just  traversed,  to 
make  their  little  excursion  into  the  shade,  and,  at  the 
suggestion  of  Mr.  Holliday,  passed  along  by  the  road  un 
til  they  reached  a  cross-path  or  sort  of  lane,  where  he 
proposed  to  them  to  turn  in.  It  would  not  be  a  much 
longer  walk  for  them  home  by  that  way,  as  by  describing 
but  a  v,ery  trifling  circuit  they  could  get  back  on  the 
road  again. 

They  went  rambling  along  down  the  lane,  therefore, 
talking  and  laughing,  picking  such  wild  flowers  and  fra 
grant  plants  as  grew  in  the  shadow  of  the  old  stone  walls, 
and  making  them  up  into  homely  and  fantastic  bouquets, 
their  spirits  dancing  to  the  awakening  influences  and  im 
pulses  of  the  time.  Even  Mary — cynical  as  she  almost 
invariably  wished  herself  to  be  considered — especially  in 
matters  relating  to  rural  life  and  enjoyment — unguardedly 
betrayed  the  high  and  healthy  tone  of  her  feelings. 

Going  on,  the  soft  turf  yielding  so  invitingly  to  the 
pressure  of  their  feet,  they  came  to  a  miserable-looking 
brown  house  of  but  a  single  story.  "Who  lives  here  ?" 
was  of  course  the  general  inquiry. 

"This  is  the  residence,  I  believe,"  said  Mr.  Holliday, 
"of  a  gentleman  hereabouts  known  by  the  name  of  Jo 
Humming;  otherwise  called  in  popular  phrase — 'Poverty 
Jo.'  He  lives  quite  alone  here,  with  nothing  more  than 


198  TO-MORROW. 

a  lean  black  dog  for  a  companion.  A  very  interesting 
character." 

Their  eyes  were  directed  to  the  dwelling,  as  they 
passed  on,  long  enough  to  observe  that  the  small  low 
windows  were  tightly  shut ;  that  no  light  smoke  sailed 
out  of  the  little  chimney  that  pierced  the  middle  of  the 
roof;  that  dockweed,  burdocks,  and  thistles  spread  and 
tangled  their  coarse  leaves  in  the  seven  by  nine  door-yard, 
and  that  an  old  hat  or  two  was  wedged  in  here  and  there 
in  lieu  of  panes  that  might  generally  be  supposed  to  pos 
sess  more  transparency.  These  few  glimpses  gave  their 
quick  perceptions  an  insight  into  the  real  character  of  the 
solitary,  and  his  easy,  slipshod,  care-for-nothing,  hand-to- 
mouth  sort  of  a  life. 

Much  further  on  they  reached  a  pleasanter  spot,  where 
stood  a  neat  little  structure  whose  roof  was  shaded  by 
protecting  boughs,  and  whose  lawn  was  smooth  with  its 
green  and  grassy  carpet ;  the  contrast  between  that  and 
the  shell  where  Poverty  Jo  slept — for  he  hardly  staid  at 
home  more  than  long  enough  to  sleep — was  striking  in 
the  extreme. 

As  they  neared  the  house  they  observed  a  woman  walk 
ing  quickly  down  the  lawn  from  the  door,  bareheaded, 
and  carrying  a  white  kerchief  in  her  hand.  Almost  be 
fore  they  had  time  to  question  Mr.  Holliday  of  who  she 
was,  she  hud  hurried  along  on  the  grassy  sidewalk  to 
meet  them,  and  came  close  before  their  faces. 

She  glanced  round  at  them  all  with  an  indescribable 
expression  of  countenance,  made  up  alike  of  pleasantness 
and  anxiety,  and  finally  settled  her  eyes  on  those  of  Mr. 
Holliday.  Laying  her  hand  on  his  arm,  she  asked  him  in 
a  low  and  earnest  tone — "Has  he  come  yet?  Has  he 
come  ?" 

It  would  be  next  to  impossible  to  convey  to  the  reader 


TO-MORROW.  199 

the  effect  her  manner  had  upon  the  feelings  of  the  girls. 
They  would  have  whispered  to  one  another,  stepping 
back  as  they  did  so — "  She's  crazy!" — but  then  that  at 
tractive  mildness  in  her  eye,  that  sweet  smile  that  had 
not  yet  altogether  died  away  about  her  mouth — these 
drowned  ^  the  veriest  whispers  of  their  rebellious  sus 
picions,  and  challenged  their  sincerest  compassion. 

"  Has  he  come  ?"  a  second  time  asked  the  woman,  her 
eyes  kindling  with  a  glow  of  expectation. 

"  No,"  answered  Mr.  Holliday — "  no,  lie  has  not  come 
yet ;  but  he  will  come  to-morrow." 

The  girls  looked  at  him  in  amazement,  wondering  what 
he  could  mean,  and  not  feeling  quite  sure  that  he  might 
not  be  as  honest  a  subject  for  pity  as  herself. 

"  Has  n't  come  !"  exclaimed  the  poor  creature,  wring 
ing  her  hands.  "  But  he  told  me  to  expect  him  to-day ; 
he  said  truly  that  he  would  come  to-day.  Has  n't  he 
come,  really?" 

"  He  '11  be  here  to-morrow,"  answered  Mr.  Holliday  a 
second  time,  slightly  moving  along  under  the  compressing 
hand  of  his  interrogator.  "  Yes,  be  patient  only  till  to 
morrow." 

"  Ah  !  till  to-morrow  ?  Will  he  be  here  then  ?"  and 
she  gradually  relaxed  her  grasp  on  his  arm  again,  looking 
directly  up  into  his  face. 

A  young  woman  at  that  instant  came  running  out  of 
the  door,  and  made  up  to  them.  Her  face  bore  marks  of 
long-seated  anxiety.  Her  head  was  uncovered,  and  her 
hands  were  upraised. 

"  Oh,  yes,  mother !"  called  she,  eager  to  lead  her  away 
from  the  strangers  ;  "  to-morrow,  you  know  !  He  '11  be 
here  to-morrow !  You  remember  what  he  told  you,  that 
he  would  come  to-morrow  ?  Come,  mother ;  let 's  go  in. 
We  've  only  got  to  wait  till  to-morrow !" 


200  TO-MOKEOW. 

"  So  we  hav'n't,  have  we,  Nancy  ?  Only  one  day 
more,  and  then  he  '11  be  here  !  Did  you  hear  that,  sir? 
Did  you  hear  what  my  daughter  said,  ladies  ?  I  sh'll  see 
him  to-morrow,  sure !" 

The  daughter  finally  took  her  poor  mother's  arm  and 
led  her  in  again.  It  was  a  pitiful  sight  that  of  these  two 
beings — the  one  so  entirely  dependent  on  the  sympathy 
of  the  other.  As  the  little  party  of  ramblers  moved  on, 
the  girls  severally  besought  their  companion  to  explain  to 
them  what  the  scene  meant,  for  he  appeared  to  know  all 
about  it ;  accordingly,  he  went  through  the  history  from 
the  beginning. 

Many  years  ago  this  poor  woman  had  a  husband,  a 
man  to  whom  she  was  devotedly  attached,  and  who,  for 
the  whole  course  of  his  married  life,  had  betrayed  an  equal 
fondness  for  her.  Years  together  they  had  toiled,  early 
and  late,  striving  to  better  their  condition.  Possibly 
they  might  have  been  in  some  little  haste  to  get  rich. 
Things  went  on  tolerably  smooth,  however  ;  and  the 
probability  is,  that  they  would  soon  spe  the  accomplish 
ment  of  all  their  desires  if  they  did  not  push  them  to  an 
unreasonable  extent. 

But  in  an  evil  hour  the  universal  tempter  came.  Vis 
ions  of  sudden  wealth  glittered  before  his  eyes.  The  in 
sane  desire  to  grow  rich  immediately  took  possession  of 
his  whole  being.  From  that  moment  all  thoughts  of  con 
tentment,  of  domestic  quiet, and  happiness,  of  peaceful 
occupation  at  home,  fled  from  his  breast.  He  riould  be 
rich ;  and  he  made  so  foolish  a  plea  serve  as  a  satisfactory 
excuse  for  leaving  friends,  home,  family,  and  native  laud, 
to  gather  together  a  mere  heap  of  money.  But  there 
are  thousands  who  do  yearly  just  as  he  did,  and  his  case 
formed  no  such  exception  as  to  make  it  deserving  of  spe 
cial  remark. 


TO-MORROW.  201 

One  year  he  staid  away — two  years — three  years. 
During  the  lapse  of  the  fourth  he  signified  his  intention 
very  soon  to  return,  as  he  had  almost  relinquished  every 
hope  of  attaining  his  desires.  The  mirage  looked  pleas 
ant  and  real  to  him  at  first ;  but  as  he  thought  he  was 
approaching  it,  he  discovered  that  it  still  kept  itself  just 
as  far  off.  He  had  more  than  been  paid  for  his  time  and 
his  labor,  to  be  sure,  but  he  had  not  reaped  the  harvest 
for  which  he  had  put  in  his  sickle. 

A  letter  came  to  his  wife,  making  her  heart  and  the 
hearts  of  her  two  children  glad,  by  the  mention  of  the 
day  when  he  expected  to  sail  for  home.  Then  another, 
dated  at  the  very  instant  of  landing  on  his  native  shores 
in  which  he  appointed  the  day  when  he  would  reach 
home,  and  mentioned,  with  all  his  old  affection,  the  very 
hour  he  expected  to  look  on  his  wife  and  children  again. 

The  day  came.  The  stago-coach  entered  the  village, 
stopped  there  as  usual,  and  went  on.  As  it  passed  the 
foot  of  a  green  country  lane,  ^starred  with  buttercups  and 
daisies,  a  little  family  group  were  to  be  seen  standing  just 
by  the  corner  of  the  wall,  waiting  for  it  to  go  by.  The 
husband  was  expected  to  get  out  there  and  be  received 
into  the  open  arms  of  his  family. 

The  driver  drew  up.  The  glad  mother's  eyes  first 
sought  his  own,  and  then  went  searching  through  the 
coach.  A  gentleman  sat  there ;  and  the  wife  involun 
tarily  stepped  forward,  an  exclamation  of  joy  upon  her 
tongue.  As  suddenly,  however,  she  stepped  back  again, 
her  face  pale  as  death.  The  expected  one  was  not  there ! 

It  remained  with  the  driver  to  communicate  the  sad 
news,  which  he  did  with  all  the  tenderness  and  consider 
ation  of  which  his  good  heart  was  capable.  The  unfor 
tunate  husband  had  met  with  an  accident  on  the  very 
wharf  on  which  he  landed,  by  which  he  lost  his  liie ', 

9* 


202  TO-MOKROW. 

And  the  stage-coach,  instead  of  bringing  him  home  to  his 
eagerly  expectant  family,  brought  only  the  burden  of  this 
great  and  overwhelming  grief. 

The  wife  bowed  under  it,  and  lost  her  reason ;  and 
each  day  after,  as  she  saw  any  one  pass,  she  invariably 
went  to  ask  if  her  husband  had  come ;  a  question  that 
nothing  could  answer  but  the  sad  and  ever-repeated 
words — "  To-morrow  !  to-morrow  he  will  be  here  !" 


POVERTY    JO. 

MR.  NUBBLES  walked  into  Hector  Hedge's  old  tavern 
one  day,  and  sat  down  near  the  door.  No  one  was  about, 
not  even  the  landlord  himself;  and  if  his  other  half  hap 
pened  to  see  this  new  customer  enter,  it  is  not  at  all  likely 
that  she  would  pay  any  further  attention  to  him  than 
simply  to  satisfy  herself  that  he  neither  helped  himself  to 
such  liquors  as  they  kept  behind  the  little  wooden  bar, 
nor  crowded  his  hand  into  so  narrow  a  crack  as  what 
they  were  pleased  to  style  their  money-drawer. 

He  had  sat  there  but  a  little  while  when  who  should 
enter — and  very  naturally,  too — but  Mr.  Jo  Rummins ; 
and  not  merely  Mr.  Rummins  himself,  but  Mr.  Rummins's 
dog. 

"  Oh,  ho !"  said  Jo,  spying  Mr.  Nubbles,  and  knocking 
his  soft  hat  to  one  side  of  his  head,  that  he  might  enjoy  a 
wider  field  for  scratching ;  "  you  're  here !" 

"  Yis,  yis !"  returned  Mr.  Nubbles,  as  truly  laconic  as 
his  friend.  "  Wonder  where  the  folks  be," — after  a  pause. 

"  Don't  know,"  said  Jo  ;  "  ain't  they  reound  here 
some'here  ?"  and  he  stepped  across  and  reached  over  the 
bar,  as  if  possible  Mr.  Hedge  might  be  crammed  away  un 
derneath. 

Just  at  that  moment  the  landlord  walked  in  at  a  side 
door. 


204  POVEKTY    JO. 

"  Hullo,  there !"  said  he.  "  What  do  you  want  in 
under  there,  Jo  ?" 

Instantly  the  face  of  the  latter  rose  like  a  full  moon 
again,  and  quite  as  red  from  his  exertion. 

"  Lookin'  to  see  if  I  could  find  any  body,"  he  answered, 
stuttering,  and  looking  as  blank-eyed  as  the  wall  itself. 

"  Wai  now,  that  ain't  no  sort  o'  use,  Jo  Rummins," 
said  the  landlord.  "  Jest  you  keep  t'  other  side  o'  my 
bar,  and  that 's  all  I  've  got  to  say  about  it !" 

"  Oh  dear !"  exclaimed  Jo,  throwing  himself  loosely 
into  a  flag-bottomed  chair  ;  "  don't  make  such  a  fret 
about  nothin'  at  all !  I  hain't  stole  nothin',  an'  what 's 
more,  I  don't  mean  tew.  When  you  ketch  Jo  Rummins 
in  that  sort  o'  business  you  may  jest  make  the  most  on 't. 
I  give  ye  full  leave." 

"  Come  !"  interrupted  Mr.  Nubbles,  rising  to  his  feet ; 
"  it 's  a  warm  day,  Mr.  Hedge — a  terrible  warm  day  ;  and 
I  kind  o'  want  a  quart  o'  your  very  best  old  Santa  Cruz. 
Got  any  ?  eh  ?" 

Mr.  Nubbles  drew  out  a  little  stone  jug  from  the  bas 
ket  he  carried  in  his  hand,  properly  enveloped  for  se 
crecy's  sake,  in  a  ragged  piece  of  an  old  tow-cloth  bag, 
and  held  it  up  before  the  landlord's  face  just  as  a  soldier 
would  present  arms.  .  A 

"Fact!  I  don't  know 's  I. have  got  any,"  said  Mr. 
Hedge,  bustling  round  behind  the  bar ;  "  but  I  '11  look 
an'  see !" 

So  he  did  look  and  see.  Yes,  he  had  Santa  Cru^ 
enough,  and  enough  of  all  the  other  sorts  besides.  He 
only  made  this  pretense  of  doubt  because  it  was  his  uni 
versal  custom.  It  had  grown  to  be  a  professional  habit 
with  him. 

While  the  strong-scented  liquid  was  gurgling  down 
the  throat  of  Mr.  Hedge's  tin  funnel  into  the  neck  of 


POVERTY    JO.  205 

Mr.  Nubbles' s  stone  jug,  Jo  Rummins  sat  and  watched 
the  process  longingly.  His  lips  seemed  to  be  never  any 
drier.  He  wet  them  with  his  tongue,  and  made  a  half- 
smacking  noise  with  them,  as  if  he  only  wished  the  stone 
throat  of  the  jug  was  his  throat. 

"  Hold  on !"  cried  Mr.  Nubbles,  who  had  stood  over 
and  watched  the  operation  thus  far.  "  Le  's  have  what 's 
in  there  to  drink !  Have  suthin',  Jo  ?." 

Jo  stepped  up  with  alacrity,  of  course.  Mr.  Hedge 
futnished  a  couple  of  tumblers,  and  the  worthy  pair — 
worthy  certainly  of  each  other — drank  down  a  fiery 
draught  apiece  "  to  a  better  understanding"  as  if  there 
might,  at  some  dim  and  indistinct  time  in  the  past,  have 
existed  a  mis-understanding  between  them. 

They  did  not  favor  Hector  Hedge  long  with  their  so 
ciety,  after  this  exploit,  but  started  off  for  home.  Jo  had 
got  a  taste,  and  all  the  several  elements  of  his  soul  in 
stantly  resolved  themselves  into  a  committee  of  the 
whole,  on  the  best  method  of  getting  a  look  at  the  inside 
bottom  of  the  jug.  Mr.  Nubbles  was  going  to  get  his 
horse,  that  stood  hitched  but  a  little  way  off,  and  then 
proposed  going  directly  over  to  Worrywitch  Hill.  "  I  'II 
take  ye  as  fur 's  I  go,"  said  he  to  Jo,  "  an'  welcome." 

That  was  enough.  Jo  got  in,  and  his  dog  trotted 
along  after. 

Coming  to  the  turn  where  Rummins  should  properly 
have  left  his  companion,  each  found  himself  in  a  highly 
agreeable  state  of  feeling,  with  his  conversational  powers 
elevated  quite  a  little  distance  above  their  ordinary  pitch. 
Jo  proposed  to  his  friend  to  turn  in  and  ride  over  to  his 
house  before  going  home.  The  old  horse  stopped  short, 
while  Mr.  Nubbles  deliberated  on  it,  looking  down  at  the 
ground. 

"  Oh,  come,"  plead  Jo,  giving  him  a  sudden  nudge 


206  POVERTY    JO. 

• 

with  his  elbow ;  "  you  can't  do  no  better,  if  you  go  home. 
Come !  let 's  set  down,  and  kind  o'  have  a  good  old- 
fashioned  chat.  We  ha'n't  had  sich  a  one  this  long  time. 
Come  along,  Nubbles !  What 's  the  use  't." 

There  wasn't  any  "  use  't  ;"-and  Mr.  Nubbles  turned 
in  his  patient  beast,  the  dog  now  taking  the  liberty  of 
trotting  before. 

Arrived  at  the  little  lonely  solitude  of  Jo,  Mr.  Nubbles 
carefully  hitched  his  horse,  as  was  his  wont,  and  both 
went  in  through  thistles,  burdocks,  and  coarse  dockweeds 
to  the  door.  Jo  fumbled  round  among  the  crevices  at 
the  underpinning  for  the  key,  which  he  duly  fished  up 
and  applied  to  the  lock.  As  the  door  swung  open,  and 
they  entered  the  house,  a  dry,  musty,  repulsive  smell  sa 
luted  their  olfactories,  which,  but  for  the  ample  protection 
so  recently  afforded  their  stomachs,  might  have  caused  a 
sensation  in  those  organs  not  much  unlike  nausea.  The 
ceiling  was  very  low,  and  needed  whitewash  badly.  The 
walls  were  without  paper,  and  some  of  them  without  even 
plaster.  Each  window  was  secured  by  a  stick,  no  one 
of  which  did  Jo  ever  suffer  to  be  opened,  let  him  have 
as  many  friends  call  as  his  little  domicile  could  hold. 

There  were  but  two  rooms  that  were  really  inhabit 
able,  one  of  which  appeared  to  serve  for  a  sitting  and 
sleeping  room,  and  the  other  in  the  capacity  of  a  kitchen, 
wash-room,  cellar,  and  so  forth.  Jo  esteemed  himself  a 
respectable  housekeeper,  whether  people  called  him  tidy 
or  not ;  that  was  nothing  to  him,  so  long  as  he  only  suited 
himself.  He  could  cook ;  he  could  wash ;  and  he  could 
do  very  well,  so  far  as  he  was  a  judge,  every  thing  that' 
he  wanted  done.  What  more  was  really  worthy  of  his 
consideration  ? 

"  Set  down,  Nubbles,"  said  he,  kicking  at  a  chair  for 


POVERTY    JO..  207 

him.  "  You 've  been  here  afore,  I  s'pose  ?  So  jest  try 
to  make  yourself  to  home  !" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Nubbles,  with  a  slight  lisp,  "  I  've 
been  here  afore  ;  I  guess  I  'have — he !  he  !  But- hold  on 
a  minnit ;  le'  me  go  out  and  git  that  basket !  You  know  ?" 
and  he  winked  his  eye  at  Jo,  as  he  thought,  with  a  great 
deal  of  cunning. 

"  Yis,  yis,"  chimed  in  the  perfectly  satisfied  solitary  ; 
"  go  ahead !  I  '11  fetch  some  water  an'  some  tumblers !" 

A  very  brief  interval  of  time  was  abundantly  sufficient 
tp  enable  them  to  conclude  all  the  necessary  prelim 
inaries  ;  and  forthwith  they  found  themselves  seated  be 
fore  a  little  pine  table,  with  a  pitcher  and  two  dirty  tum 
blers  right  under  their  noses. 

"  A-a-a-h !  that 's  good !"  cried  Jo,  after  making  the  first 
attempt  at  the  jug,  and  striking  his  tumbler  down  on  the 
table  with  an  emphasis  for  which  no  glass  manufacturer 
would  be  foolish  enough  to  give  a  warrant.  "  That's  the 
raal  old  stuff!  the  reg'lar  thing,  Nubbles  !  Have  a  pipe  ?" 
continued  he,  reaching  out  for  one  on  the  low  mantel. 
Mr.  Nubbles  did  n't  smoke,  whatever  else  he  did.  So 
Poverty  Jo  sat  and  whiffed  away  all  by  himself. 

And  while  he  is  whiffing,  let  me  take  the  liberty  to  just 
touch  him  off  with  a  hasty  description. 

There  he  sat,  hat,  pipe,  shoes,  and  all.  He  had  man 
aged  to  pile  up  his  two  feet  on  the  table,  with  the  pitcher 
of  water  and  other  things,  where  they  were  displayed  to 
the  best  advantage  possible.  His  hat  he  had  stuck  tight 
on  the  exact  crown  of  his  head,  and  his  hands  into  the 
edges  of  his  trowsers'  pockets.  Look  out  for  a  long, 
frowsy  beard,  a  mouth  stained  at  the  corners  with  to 
bacco  juice,  a  pair  of  eyes  that  seemed  to  be  going 
asleep  all  the  time,  and  face  and  forehead  covered  thickly 
over  with  little  fine  Avrinkles,  like  plaits  on  a  shirt  frill ; 


208  POVERTY    JO. 

and,  after  you  have  put  the  short  stump  of  a  pipe  iu  his 
mouth,  you  had  the  outline  picture  of  Jo  Rummins.  He 
wore  110  coat,  nothing  but  a  woolen  vest  that  hung  flab 
bily  from  his  shoulders,  and  a  pair  of  faded  blue  trovvsers  ; 
and  his  bare  ankles  hardly  did  those  perceptible  strips  of 
his  body  any  great  credit,  as  they  offered  themselves  in 
contrast  with  even  his  rough  and  dusty  shoes. 

He  who  said  that  Jo  was  a  bad  man,  betrayed  his  per 
fect  ignorance  of  the  subject  he  talked  about.  Better 
men  there  unquestionably  were,  for  even  Jo  himself  said 
he  made  no  sort  of  pretension  or  profession  ;  but  worse 
men,  regarded  especially  in  the  matter  of  citizenship,  and 
quiet,  uniform  deportment,  it  would  be  easy  to  find  in 
almost  any  place  that  thought  itself  worth  a  name.  Jo 
said  of  himself:  "  I'jest  mean  to  go  'long  an' mind  my 
own  business  peaceably ;  don't  calc'late  to  hurt  nor  mo 
lest  no  livin'  creetur ;  don't  mean  to  keep  lookiu'  behind 
me  on  my  way  home,  for  fear  somebody's  arter  me  to  ask 
what  I  've  been  stealin' ;  mind  my  own  business,  and  let 
other  folks  mind  theirs."  That  was  about  a  fair  compi 
lation  of  his  creed,  and  it  is  due  to  him  to  add  that  he 
was  a  very  consistent  follower  of  the  very  few  principles 
therein  set  forth. 

Poverty  Jo — as  one  would  readily  conclude  from  his 
popular  name — was  not  a  rich  man  ;  neither  would  it  be 
exactly  fair  to  say  that  he  was  a  downright  poor  man ; 
that  is,  as  things  went  around  him.  He  owned  this  little 
house  such  as  it  was ;  and  the  fruits  of  its  burdocks  and 
thistles  in  front,  and  of  its  few  hills  of  corn  and  potatoes 
in  the  rear,  were  all  indisputably  his  own.  So  that  he 
was  not  really  in  want,  nor  y^t  was  he  quite  above  it ; 
but  rather,  as  somebody  has  very  graphically  defined  the 
position  of  such  an  individual,  he  occupied  that  vague  and 
dim  borderland,  that  formed  a  sort  of  boundary  line  be- 


POVERTY    JO.  209 

• 

tween  respectability  and  the  poor-house.  Jo  knew  every 
body,  and  every  body  knew  Jo.  If  lie  had  u't  a  friend 
in  the  world,  he  could  say  with  just  as  much  truth  that 
he  hadn't  an  enemy.  He  was  a  hanger-on  upon  the 
skirts  of  rustic  civilization  ;•  quite  as  much  a  companion 
for  the  squirrels  and  woodchucks,  and  other  creatures 
that  found  apartments  under  ground,  as  for  those  who 
made  it  a  point  to  associate  together  and  attend  church 
each  week  in  the  village,  above  ground. 

"  You  've  got  a  likely  sort  of  a  dog  there,  Jo,"  offered 
Mr.  Nubbles.  "  What  '11  ye  take  for  him,  say  ?" 

Jo  drew  the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  slowly  turned  his 
head  about  so  that  he  could  get  a  look  at  the  creature, 
and  fell  into  a  train  of  deliberation.  The  old  dog's  his 
tory  spread  itself  out  right  before  his  eyes  like  a  high- 
colored  map. 

"  What  '11 1  take  for  him  ?"  repeated  he,  every  word 
very  slowly ;  "  do  ye  think*  I  'd  sell  that  dog,  Nubbles  ? 
Do  ye  s'pose  any  man  's  rich  enough  to  buy  him  of  me  ?" 

Endowed  with  perceptions  such  as  not  every  dog 
could  boast,  this  dog  raised  his  head  from  his  out 
stretched  fore  paws,  winked  at  his  master  first  with  one 
eye  and  then  with  the  other,  threw  a  glance  up  at  Mr. 
Nubbles,  gaped  widely,  and  laid  his  head  down  again. 

"  See  that,  now  ?"  said  Jo.  "  He  knows  what  we  're 
talkin'  a-bout !" 

"  Sho !  Do  you  really  think  so  ?  Wai,  he  's  a  knowin' 
dog  if  he  does.  Worth  so  much  the  more,  I  s'pose — eh  ? 
But  what  '11  ye  take  for  him  any  way  ?" 

"  Take  for  him !  I  won't  sell  him,  I  tell  you !  Do  you 
think  I  'd  part  with  the  best  friend  I  've  got  in  the 
world?  and  jest  for  a  little  money  ?  No ;  I  hopes  I  've 
got  a  soul  a  leetle  above  that,  if  folks  ain't  a  mind  to 
think  I  've  got  a  soul  for  any  thing  more.  You  can't  buy 


210  POVERTY    JO. 

that  dog,  Nubbles ;.  no,  nor  no  other  man !  Come ; 
what  say  to  another — an-oth-er  shake-up  o'  your  jug 
there  ?" 

It  would  n't  be  veritable  history  to  say  that  some  in 
stinctive  delicacy  made  Mr.  Nubbles  shrink  from  the 
operation  denominated  by  Jo  as  "  another  shake-up  of 
the  jug,"  for  that  worthy  did  take  hold  on  the  stone  ves 
sel,  and  did  take  out  the  stopper ;  and  the  motions  that 
were  indulged  in  immediately  after,  by  both  individuals, 
had  much  better  be  left  to  the  suspicions  of  the  reader 
than  intrusted  to  description.  It  is  enough  to  add  that 
just  as  soon  as  the  rightful  proprietor  of  the  jug  could 
get  an  opportunity  to  do  so,  he  crowded  the  stopper  into 
the  neck  again  with  a  rather  unsteady  hand,  jammed  the 
jug  itself  into  the  basket,  hung  the-  basket  over  his  arm, 
and  appeared  to  set  every  thing  and  every  body  silently 
at  defiance.  Jo  saw  how  things  stood,  and  inwardly  fell 
to  bewailing  the  unpromising  nature  of  the  circumstances 
that  shadowed  him.  All  he  did,  however,  was  to  knock 
his  hat  a  little  further  back  on  his  head,  rub  briskly  the 
new  exposure,  pull  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  and  put  it 
back  again. 

"  Nubbles,"  said  he,  biting  his  pipe-stem  in  order  to 
talk,  "  this  is  a  queer  world  !" 

"  Queer  enough,"  acquiesced  the  other,  shaking  his 
head,  and  clapping  his  hand  to  his  basket  as  if  not  yet 
quite  satisfied  of  its  safety. 

"  Folks  don't  pull  together  as  they  'd  orter ;  if  they 
did,  every  body  'd  handle  more  money  'n  they  dew,  an' 
git  more  clo's  to  wear,  and  hev  a  little  more  to  eat  an' 
drink,  an'  all  that  sort  o'  thing.  Beats  all,  how  the  world 
goes.  I  git  sick  on  't  sometimes ;  no  friends — no  kind  of 
a  home — not  much  work,  and  a  good  deal  less  pay — same 
old  road  to  travel  from  one  year's  end  to  t'  other's — no 


POVERTY    JO.  211 

change — no  nothin',  but  ray  old  dog  here  !     I  git  'most 
discouraged  sometimes,  Nubbles!" 

The  dog  again  looked  up  in  his  master's  face,  as  if  he 
did  not  quite  comprehend  his  meaning. 

"  Why,  what  on  airth  's  the  matter !"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Nubbles,  his  eyes  opening  with  astonishment.  "  Why, 
Jo ;  you  're  gittin'  bleu  !  Jes'  look  o'  me,  now,"  and  he 
held  out  both  hands  at  arm's  length  that  he  might  the 
better  look  at  him.  "  Jes'  see  how  I  'm  sitooated,  now ! 
A  man  with  a  wife,  and  such  a  wife ;  and  you  've  got  no 
such  a  thing !  My  boy  I  like  well  enough,  and  he 's  a 
great  comfort,  to  be  sure ;  but  then,  jes'  look  at  what  I 
have  to  go  through  to  enjoy  that  boy !  Jo  Rummins, 
le'  me  tell  you  one  thing,  and  do  you  hear  me ;  if  you 
should  live  a  thousan'  year  don't  ye  never  git  married ! 
It 's  my  advice,  an'  it 's  my  experience,  too.  Jes'  let  the 
female  sex  go  !  They  ain't  what  I  thought  they  was, 
once !  I  've  got  deceived  Jo  Rummins ;  an'  when 
man's  got  deceived,  he's  pooty  shure  not  to  want  his 
friends  to  ketch  the  disease  !  So  do  you  jest  remember 
what  I  say !" 

And  the  recollection  of  his  wife  flashed  so  vividly  over 
his  mind,  blazing  through  his  obfuscations  as  brightly  as 
the  sun  shines  through  a  white  fog,  that  he  started  to  his 
feet  as  if  the  peal  of  a  trumpet  rang  in  his  ears,  and  said, 
"  He  thought  he  must  be  goin'." 

Jo  sat  and  ruminated -further  over  the  subject,  and 
over  the  subject  of  life  in  general;  and  his  thoughts 
grew  more  and  more  despondent,  and  his  heart,  like  a 
truthful  barometer,  sank  lower  and  lower,  till  it  is  doubt 
ful  if  he  could  ever  have  climbed  up  out  of  that  well 
of  darkness  again  had  not  sleep  suddenly  snatched  away 
his  consciousness,  and  changed  all  the  heights  and  depths 
of  the  realities  into  the  smooth  level  of  a  pleasant  dream. 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

A     BACK-DOOR     VISITOR. 

• 

ELLEN  had  gone  back  to  town.  The  sisters  were  sad 
enough,  and  sat  talking  soberly  about  it. 

"  If  we  could  but  have  her  here  all  the  time,"  said 
Mary,  trying  to  disentangle  a  skein  of  light  silk,  "  I 
could  seem  to  endure  it !  HOAV  much  we  shall  miss  her, 
Martha,  now  she  is  gone  !" 

"  But  we  can  return  her  visit,"  suggested  Martha, 
catching  at  the  slightest  hope  of  raising  their  spirits. 

"  So  we  can ;  so  we  can ;  and  that 's  what  I  '11  get 
ready  to  do  this  very  winter;  and  we'll  both  go  and 
make  a  regular  season  of  it,  won't  we  ?" 

"  And  leave  father  and  mother  here  alone  ?"  asked  the 
thoughtful  Martha. 

Mary  paused.  That  consideration  had  slipped  her 
mind  entirely. 

"  They  would  be  perfectly  willing,  I  am  sure,"  said  she. 

"  That  may  be ;  but  then,  I  try  *to  ask  myself  some 
times  if  doing  so  would  be  doing  perfectly  right.  Is  n't 
it  rather  like  deserting  them  ?  How  do  we  know  that 
they  are  not  apt  to  be  lonely  as  well  as  ourselves  ?" 

"  You  are  always  so  self-sacrificing,  Martha  !  I  declare, 
I  sometimes  wish  I  was  more  like  you.  Every  body 
seems  to  think  more  of  you  than  they  do  of  me.  And 
now  I  believe  I  see  the  reason  why." 


A    BACK-DOCK    VISITOR.  213 

Martha  could    bo   made    to   believe   no   such   thinsr, 

O/ 

whether  it  was  so  or  not.  She  was  unwilling  to  claiir. 
for  herself,  even  secretly,  any  superiority  over  one  she 
loved  as  dearly  as  her  sister ;  and  that  very  spirit  of  self- 
abnegation  brought  out  her  beautiful  qualities  only  the 
more  prominently. 

"But  Ellen  was  very  urgent,"  plead  Mary.  "I  don't 
see  how  we  're  to  avoid  going  very  well.  And  I  know 
that  father  will  be  perfectly  willing  and  anxious  that  we 
should,  too ;  especially  when  he  comes  to  know  how 
much  she  depends  upon  it." 

Martha  might  have  helped  on  the  discussion  of  the 
subject  still  further  ;  but  a  voice  they  both  were  able  to 
recognize  fell  on  their  ear,  and  through  the  door  that  led 
out  into  the  kitchen  appeared  Mr.  Dandelly. 

"  Well  done !"  said  he,  lifting  up  both  hands. 

Mary  screamed  outright  with  laughter.  This  time  she 
was  determined  to  try  another  application. 

Martha  only  bowed,  while  her  face  combined  on  its 
surface  a  great  variety  of  expressions. 

He  was  newly  dressed  this  time,  and  a  little  more  gayly 
than  usual.  White,  however,  was  rather  the  predominat 
ing  color  about  him.  His  hair  seemed  newly  curled,  hi 
mustache  seemed  newly  furbished.  His  white  beaver  had 
been  brushed  down  till  it  was  sleek  as  a  mole's  back,  and 
still  he  kept  rubbing  it  with  the  palm  of  his  hand. 

They  did  not  ask  him  to  sit  down ;  but  that  was  to  his 
mind  no  sort  of  reason  why  he  should  not  sit  down.  He 
slid  into  a  seat,  and  began  his  comments  and  questions. 

"  Very  fine  young  lady,  that  Miss  Worthington.  She 's 
gone  home,  I  've  heerd." 

Both  the  girls  happened  to  feel  in  just  the  mood  to 
humor  him  :  so  they  told  him  she  had. 

"  I  only  wish  I'd  ha'  known  it  before,"  said  he.     "  I  de- 


214  A    BACK-DOOE    VISITOR. 

clare,  I  believe  I  sli'd  been  'most  tempted  to  go  along 
with  her,  take  care  of  her  baggage  and  things.  Strange 
I  never  hear  of  nothin',  till  it 's  all  over  with  !" 

"Are  you  really  one  of  that  unfortunate  class  of  mor 
tals  ?"  inquired  Mary. 

Mr.  Dandelly  acknowledged,  with  shame  and  confusion 
of  face,  that  he  believed  he  was.  "  However,"  added  he, 
with  a  strong  emphasis  on  that  word,  "  I  don't  know  but 
I  'm  lucky  sometimes.  There  is  such  things,  Miss  Rivers, 
even  to  the  unfortunate  ones." 

A  second  time  he  thought  it  necessary  for  him  to  state 
that  he  thought  Miss  Worthington,  who  he  was  sorry  to 
hear  had  just  gone,  was  "  a  very  tine  girl ;"  and  he  added 
that  he  should  like  to  get  better  acquainted  with  her. 
"  But  I  go  to  the  city,  once  in  a  while,  and  I  can  call  on 
her ;  that  is,  if  I  can  only  find  out  from  you  what  street 
and  number  she  lives  in." 

Neither  of  the  girls  spoke.  Their  odd  visitor  scrutin 
ized  their  faces  with  his  twinkling  little  eyes,  put  his  hat 
down  on  the  floor  beside  his  chair,  and  passed  his  hand 
cautiously  over  the  bed  of  curls  on  his  head,  to  see  if  all 
things  above  were  in  perfect  order. 

"N"ow  let  me  hold  that  skein  of  silk  for  you,  Miss 
Rivers,"  said  he,  desirous  of  making  himself  useful. 

"  Oh  no,  sir,"  she  replied.  "  I  would  n't  trouble  you  as 
much  as  that.  Pray  keep  your  seat,  Mr.  Dandelly.  I 
can  get  along  with  it  myself  just  as  well."  And  in  her 
sudden  confusion,  she  got  along  so  well  with  it,  that  she 
threw  it  into  more  snarls  than  she  had  extricated  it  from 
in  the  last  ten  minutes. 

"I  could  help  you  now,  I  know,  if  you  'd  but  let  me," 
persisted  he.  "  Ah  !  what  new  book  have  you  got  there 
on  the  table  %  I  guess  I  did  not  see  that,  the  last  time  I 
was  here,  did  I  ?" 


A    BACK-DOOB    VISITOR.  215 

He  got  up  and  took  the  book  from  the  little  stand. 
"  Marry  must  Bridge :  A  Romance,"  said  he,  repeating 
the  words  he  read  on  the  back.  "  Quite  a  pretty  book. 
Proper,  han'some  binding.  Beaut'ful  letters  on  the  back, 
all  gilt  so.  What  sort  of  a  book  is  it  ?" 

Mary  told  him  she  thought  it  was  quite  a  handsome 
book,  catching  at  his  own  idea. 

"  So  'tis  ;  I  declare,  'tis  so,"  said  he,  not  discerning  the 
satire  in  her  expression  at  all.  "  Give  me  a  handsome 
book,  even  if  the  readin'  ain't  quite  so  good !"  And  to 
tally  indifferent  to  the  character  of  the  trifling  part  he 
called  the  "readin',"  he  began  a  flirting  motion  to  and 
fro  with  the  leaves,  looking  critically  at  the  top  and  bot 
tom  edges. 

"  I  like  to  see  gilt  on  the  leaves,  don't  you  ?"  said  he. 
"  Now  how  much  purtier,  how  much  richer  so  handsome 
a  book  as  this  is,  would  look  with  gilt  edges  !  What  a 
pity  folks  don't  always  stop  to  think,  before  they  go  and 
sp'ile  a  thing  !  However,  I  don't  say  that 's  sp'iled,  by 
no  means." 

"  Oh,  no,"  joined  in  Mary,  archly,  "  I  think  that  will 
keep  a  long  time  yet." 

He  didn't  understand  it.  Whenever  any  thing  that 
was  said  puzzled  him,  he  had  a  habit  of  staring  blankly  for 
a  moment  at  the  person  who  had  done  the  mischief,  and 
then  of  feeling  his  head,  as  if  something  might  be  sud 
denly  wrong  there. 

"  From  Mr.  Holliday,  eh  ?"  he  returned,  after  reading 
the  inscription  in  pencil  on  the  fly  leaf. 

"  Yes,  from  Mr.  Holliday,"  promptly  and  decisively 
answered  Martha. 

"  I  could  have  told  you  that,"  said  her  sister,  "  without 
giving  you  the  trouble  to  look." 

"  Are  you  very  much  acquainted  with  him  ?"  he  asked. 


i 

216  A    BACK-DOOB    VISITOR. 

"Did  you  ever  see  him,  or  know  Mm,  or  hear  of  him,  be 
fore  you.  came  here  ?" 

"  Yes,  we  feel  a  little  acquainted  with  him,"  answered 
Mary.  "  Why  do  you  inquire  ?" 

"  Oh,  nothing.  Only  I  'd  seen  him  walkin'  out  round 
with  you  a  good  deal,  and  I  'd  heerd  he  was  gettin'  to  be 
something  of  a  visitor  out  here,  besides.  I  s'pose  you 
like  him,  of  course  ? — he !  he !  he  ! — else  he  would  n't 
come  out  here ! — he !  he !" 

"  What  do  you  think  of  him,  Mr.  Dandelly  ?"  asked 
Mary,  quizzingly,  and  glancing  hastily  at  her  sister. 

"  Well,  now,"  said  he,  dropping  his  voice  a  little,  "  I 
really  sh'd  like  to  tell  you,  for  I  know 't  you  don't  know 
about  him  quite  so  well  as  I  do." 

"  Yes,"  acquiesced  Mary,  leading  him  blindly  on. 

He  drew  up  his  chair  a  trifle,  as  if  he  were  inclined  to 
be  somewhat  confidential. 

"  The  fact  is,  now,"  said  he,  "  I  don't  want  exactly  to 
say  any  thing  against  a  person  behind  their  backs,  though 
of  course,  folks  must  now  and  then  expect  that  something 
will  be  said  about  them." 

The  girls  appeared  to  assent  to  the  principle  contained 
in  the  last  clause,  perfectly. 

"  I've  known  him  longer  than  you  have,  both  of  you," 
he  went  on.  "  He 's  a  clever  fellow  enough,  I  've  always 
thought,  and  real  good  hearted;  that  is,  for  all  I  know 
to  the  contrary." 

"  Yes,"  acquiescingly  responded  Mary,  again. 

"  They  say,  too,  he  's  a  fellow  of  some  talents ;  but  I 
don't  know  so  much  about  that,  and  so  I  can't  undertake 
to  say." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Mary,  "  you  may  not  consider  your 
self  a  good  judge !" 

He  paused  to  stare  at  her  a  moment,  his  hand  went, 


A    BACK-DOOR    VISITOR.  217 

like  the  movement  of  an  automaton,  directly  to  the  top  of 
i  his  head,  and  then  he  recovered  himself  again. 

"He  writes  a  good  deal,  I  s'pose;  but  what  it  all 
amounts  to,  that  I  can't  tell.  I  never  see  much  of  it  yet. 
Fact  is,  I  don't  think  much  of  those  sort  of  things." 

"  Yes,"  again  put  in  Mary,  in  a  tone  that  to  his  ears 
sounded  remarkably  sweet  and  alluring. 

"  Folks  say  that  he 's  this,  and  he  's  that ;  but  that 
don't  seem  to  amount  to  much,  after  all.  What  a  man 
does,  is  what  you  know  him  by ;  and  that 's  the  whole 
of 't.  Now  what  is  a  piece  of  scribblin'  ?  Why,  any  body 
can  -set  down  and  scratch  off  a  story,  or  any  thing  o'  that 
sort,  on  clean  foolscap — that  is,  if  he  's  got  the  time  and 
ain't  too  lazy,  as  I  am  myself.  I  don't  see  why  people 
choose  to  make  such  a  great  fuss  over  a  person  that  can 
just  write  a  little ;  as  if  one  could  n't  do  it  about  as  well 
as  another.  Books  are  all  well  enough ;  I  like  a  good 
book,  if  it 's  got  a  nice  sort  of  a  story  to  it,  or  any  thing 
like  that ;  because  it  helps  you  so  much  in  gettin'  rid  of 
a  dull  spell,  like  an  hour  before  dinner,  or  a  real  rainy 
afternoon  ;  but  these  common  sort  o'  writin's,  such  as 
some  of  his  are,  perhaps — why,  what  does  any  body  care 
about  them  ?" 

"  I  see  you  have  a  great  deal  of  discrimination  !"  said 
Mary. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  he  answered.  "  Fact 
is,  I  don't  have  time  to  read  very  much,  any  way.  I  'in 
here,  and  there,  and  every  where,  all  the  while ;  traveling 
about  from  one  part  of  the  country  to  another ;  and  so 
many  acquaintances  to  visit,  too !  I  tell  you,  books  are  a 
thing  that 's  pretty  much  out  o'  the  question  with  me." 

Mary  was  persevering  with  her  quiet  fun.  "  Have  you 
ever  called  on  Mr.  Holliday  many  times  ?"  said  she. 

"  Called  ?  Oh,  la,  yes !  called  once,  and  talked  with 
10 


218  A    BACK-DOOR    VISITOK. 

him  over  the  palin'  while  he  was  to  work  in  the  garding  ; 
called  agin,  and  he  jest  spoke  a  few  words  to  me,  and  said 
finally  he  would  like  to  be  excused — he  was  so  busy  jest 
then  !  I  thought  he  was  a  good  deal  of  a  gentleman  that 
time,  I  did !  Fact  was,  I  did  n't  like  him  one  bitf.  And 
people  all  about  here  tell  me  that  he  won't  have  nothin' 
to  do  with  nobody  at  all;  he's  proud,  an'  distant,  an' 
don't  speak  half  the  time  ;  and  I  guess  myself  that  he  's 
got  no  very  great  reason  to  stick  himself  up  so  above 
common  folks." 

"  But  perhaps  he  does  n't,"  suggested  Martha,  speak 
ing  for  the  second  time  during  this  odd  conversation. 
"Perhaps  people  would  think  differently  if  they  only 
knew  him." 

"  Well,  then,  why  don't  he  take  a  little  more  pains  to 
get  acquainted  with  folks  ?  Why  ain't  he  willin'  they 
should  get  acquainted  with  him  ?  What  makes  him 
carry  himself  so  stiff,  and  hold  his  head  so  high,  and  try 
to  look  down  on  every  body  that  comes  near  him  ?" 

"  Do  you  think  he  does  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Does  n't  every  body  think  he  does,  I  should  like  to 
know?" 

"  But  perhaps  this  is  nothing  but  a  mistake  of  their 
own.  How  do  they  know,  without  first  finding  out,  that 
his  tastes  are  their  tastes  ?  People  can't  expect  one  to 
lay  his  whole  heart  open  to  them  unless  there- is  some 
very  manifest  reason  for  it ;  and  if  his  sympathies  and 
their  sympathies  happen  to  kindle  when  they  come  in 
contact,  they  will  get  thoroughly  acquainted  before  they 
once  think  of  it." 

"  Well,  I  don't  see  myself,  I  don't,  why  he  should  pre 
tend  to  feel  that  his  tastes  are  any  better  than  any  body's 
else  tastes ;  he 's  nothing  different  from  common  folks ; 


A    BACK-DOOR    VI8ITOB.  219 

he  walks  pretty  mucli  as  other  men  do,  and  wears  his  hat 
pretty  much  as  they  do — as  I  do  myself." 

"  That  is  something  in  his  favor,  I  'm  sure,"  said  MaVy. 
"  'Tis  n't  every  body  that  docs  that !" 

"  Well,"  said  he,  a  little  uneasily,  "I  don't  know  what 
you  think  of  him  ;  but  I  don't  think  much  of  him.  I 
can't  get  acquainted  with  him ;  and  when  I  find  a  man 
like  that,  I  begin  to  consider  that  he  ain't  much  of  a  man ; 
leastways,  not  much  of  a  one  for  me.  If  a  person  is  any 
thing  extra  let  him  show  it  out ;  not  go  hiding  about  in 
the  bushes,  as  he  does,  and  make  a  great  pretension  that 
he  ain't  to  be  come  at  by  common  folks !  That 's  my 
doctrine,  exactly." 

"  Perhaps  you  know  who  the  author  of  that  book  is 
that  you  hold  in  your  hand  ?"  said  Mary. 

He  looked  once  more  at  the  lettering  on  the  back ;  he 
turned  it  over,  and  looked  carefully  at  the  edges ;  and 
then  he  fell  to  flirting  the  leaves  carelessly  to  and  fro 
again.  "  No,  I  don't,"  said  he.  "  Do  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes ;  we  know." 

"  Who  is  it  ?  Some  city  friend  of  yours  ?  I  declare  I 
should  like  to  get  acquainted  with  him.  Perhaps  he 's 
coming  out  here  before  summer 's  over ;  and  I  shall  most 
likely  be  gone  to  the  Springs !" 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Mary,  "  you  can  see  him  even  if  you 
do  go  to  the  Springs.  I  guess  that  will  not  interfere." 

"  Why  ?  Who  is  he  ?  Will  he  be  there  when  I  am  ? 
What  is  his  name  ?" 

"  You  have  seen  him  already,  I  think.  His  name  is 
Mr.  Holliday ;  and  he  is  a  particular  friend  of  ours,  as 
perhaps  you  didn't  till  this  moment  know!" 

Martha  had  to  laugh  outright.  She  could  not  keep  her 
mirth  bottled  up  any  longer. 

The  evident  embarrassment,  if  not  consternation,  into 


220  A    BACK-DOOR    VISITOR. 

which  their  visitor  was  thrown,  seemed  sufficient  punish 
ment  for  the  impudent  indiscretions  of  which  he  was 
guilty. 

He  stared,  first  at  Mary,  and  then  at  Martha ;  then  up 
went  his  hand  again  to  the  crown  of  his  ringleted  head ; 
and  finally  he  fell  to  looking  over  the  book  itself,  as  if  he 
might  as  well  examine  into  the  merits  of  the  work  before 
he  had  any  thing  further  to  ofier  about  the  author. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

LITTLE      PILGRIMS. 

To  go  back  to  Gabriel  again.  Daring  the  terra  of  his 
life  with  Crankey  and  his  associates,  he  found  that  one 
day  varied  not  much  from  another.  In  the  dearth  and 
the  dimness  of  new  prospects  that  they  held  out  to  him, 
they  were  altogether  alike.  He  ran  on  errands  for  Cran 
key  and  for  Kate.  When  not  otherwise  employed,  he 
was  suffered  to  run  about  in  the  alleys  and  lanes  that  be 
set  his  obscure  abode,  and  pick  up  such  a  fund  of  enjoy 
ment  as  might  best  suit  his  youthful  inclination.  He 
liked  this  little  enough,  it  is  true ;  he  grew  sick  at  heart 
from  seeing  the  shameless  and  repulsive  sights  that  daily 
greeted  him ;  but  still,  almost  any  thing  was  preferable  to 
being  hived  up  in  the  hot  upper  room  where  his  protector 
lodged,  sometimes  with  the  shutters  up  and  the  stout 
bars  behind  them. 

"You  may  jest  feel  of  what  gentleman's  coat  pockets 
you  fall  in  with,"  said  Isaac  to  him  one  day,  as  he  sent 
him  out  for  air  and  exercise.  "  But  mind  how  you  do 
it.  Don't  go  to  pullin'  and  twitchin'  things  about  in 
this  way" — explaining  to  him  the  style  he  meant — "  for 
that  never '11  do  ;  but  jest  let  yer  hand  go  over  loosely — 
it 's  a  little  hand,  and  I  know  you  can  do  it — and  if  you 
find  a  nose-wiper,  'specially  if  it  happens  to  be  a  silk  one, 
why,  you  know  what  then  ?  Be  sharp  now,  boy !" 


222  LITTLE    PILGRIMS. 

"  What  ?"  asked  Gabriel,  in  all  innocence. 

"  What !  you  little — you — you — are  you  so  thick  you 
can't  take  ?"  said  he,  angrily,  while  his  eyes  blazed 
fiercely  upon  him  for  a  few  minutes.  "  If  there  's  a  han'- 
kercher,  take  it,  of  course  !  What  else  do  you  suppose  I 
want  you^o  do  ?  And  after  you  've  got  to  be  a  little 
skillful  at  that,  why,  there 's  a  front  pocket,  where  some 
men  carry  their  purses !  Do  you  take  now  ? — hey  ?" 

"  You  don't  want  rne  to  steal,  do  you,  Mr.  Crankey  ?" 
asked  the  boy,  meeting  the  man's  wicked  eye  with  one  of 
his  own  sorrowful  looks. 

"  Steal !  Don't  ye  dare  to  speak  that  word  !  Don't 
never  let  me  hear  you  say  it  again  !  Steal !  No  ;  I 
want  you  to  be  industr'ous,  and  earn  your  own  livin' — 
work  your  own  way  along.  If  you  see  a  good  chance  to 
draw  a  silk  han'kercher  out  of  a  fool's  pocket,  you've  got 
a  right  to  it ;  and  he 's  only  the  bigger  fool  for  lettin'  it 
go !  So  now  off  with  you ;  and  don't  come  home  agin 
unless  you  fetch  somethin'  along  with  ye  !  D'  ye  hear?" 

Gabriel  moved  out  of  the  room,  crying  and  solbbing 
bitterly. 

"  It  is  n't  for  this  that  I  brought  ye  here,  youngster," 
added  Crankey.  "  You  've  got  to  get  yer  livin'  one  way 
or  another,  and  you  might  as  well  begin  now  as  a  year 
hence.  Stop  that  blubberiii'  now,  or  I'll  shut  ye  up 
where  you  '11  blubber  all  day !  Put  on  a  pleasant  face, 
and  go  to  work  and 'see  how  much  you  can  bring  home 
to  me  !" 

"  I  can  not  take  any  thing  that  don't  belong  to  me," 
said  Gabriel,  in  a  tone  almost  of  despair.  "My  mother 
told  me  never  to  do  such  wrong  things  as  that.  She 
told  me  to  be  good  always !" 

"  Your  mother  ?  And  who  was  your  mother,  you 
little  rninx  ?  What  sort  of  a  creetur  was  she  anyhow  ? 


LITTLE    PILGRIMS.  223 

Did  n't  you  tell  me  that  you  come  from  a  poor-house  ?  and 
do  you  s'pose  that  what  a  poor-house  woman  says  amounts 
to  any  thing  ?  Do  you  s'pose  it 's  goin'  to  have  any 
thing  to  do  with  me  ?  or  with  any  boy  't  I  take  to  bring 
up  ?  Come ;  away  with  you !  Don't  have  no  more  o' 
this  whinin'  and  cryin' ;  that 's  only  for  babies ;  turn  right 
about  an'  be  a  man,  an'  forget  that  you  ever  come  from 
such  a  place  as  an  old  country  poor-house  !  Do  your  best 
now,  to-day,  and  you  '11  find  that  I  shall  pay  you  well 
for 't." 

Gabriel  went  out,  and  wended  his  way  to  a  well-known 
retreat  in  a  neighboring  alley,  where  the  sun  never  came 
and  footsteps  were  rarely  heard  during  the  day ;  and  sit 
ting  down  upon  a  damp  stone,  he  buried  his  face  in  his 
hands,  and  wept  for  the  memory  of  his  mother.  His 
breast  heaved ;  the  tears  rolled  through  his  fingers  and 
dropped  on  the  hard  pavement ;  his  lips  fashioned  ex 
pressions  of  sorrow,  that  not  even  one  dear,  good  friend 
was  left  to  him ;  and  he  appeared  utterly  broken  with  his 
grief. 

When,  after  the  expiration  of  a  long  time,  he  aroused 
himself  and  came  out  upon  the  alley  again,  his  eyes  were 
much  swollen,  and  he  felt  dizzy  and  faint.  What  to  do, 
or  where  to  go,  was  a  problem  for  his  thoughts.  He 
knew  no  other  living  friend  but  Isaac,  and  he  dared  not 
go  back  to  him  yet.  He  could  think  of  no  one  but  his 
mother.  Yes,  yes,  through  the  clouds  looked  the  sym 
pathizing  countenances  of  Mrs.  Joy  and  of  old  Nathan 
Grubb ;  and  they  encouraged  him.  But  he  thought  of 
them  as  being  themselves  as  friendless  and  as  poor  as  he, 
and  his  gleam  of  encouragement  grew  dim.  And  yet 
one  other  face — a  sweet  face,  a  kind  and  gentle  face,  so 
radiant  and  so  heavenly  in  its  expression,  that  he  yearned 
in  his  heart  for  the  deep  pleasure  of  looking  on  it  but 


224  LITTLE    PILGRIMS. 

even  once  again — beamed  brightly  upon  him,  and  a  thrill 
of  joy  darted  through  his  heart,  that  quite  revived  him. 
It  was  the  face  of  Martha  Rivers  ;  as  it  appeared  to  him 
when  she  followed  him  to  the  gate,  and  offered  him  that 
little  bunch  of  garden  flowers  which  Mrs.  Nubbles  was 
thoughtful  enough  to  throw  into  the  fire  on  his  return 
home.  Oh,  if  he  could  see  Martha  at  this  moment,  and 
tell  her  all  his  many,  many  troubles !  It  seemed  as  if  he 
would  be  happy  then. 

While  he  walked  thus  thoughtfully  along,  Ire  overtook 
little  Jane,  who  was  herself  roaming,  about  in  the  purlieus 
of  the  place.  Their  eyes  met,  as  he  spoke  to  her.  She 
betrayed  all  her  former  interest  in  Gabriel,  and  seemed 
to  regard  him  with  a  feeling  like  affection.  At  once, 
therefore,  they  fell  into  conversation,  walking  on  while 
they  talked. 

They  chatted  of  what  they  saw,  both  objects  and  per 
sons  ;  and  of  the  people  among  whom  their  lot  was 
thrown  ;  and  at  last  Gabriel's  thoughts  took  a  wide  turn, 
and  he  asked  her  if  she  had  ever  lived  in  the  country. 

"  No,"  answered  little  Jane.  "  Where  's  that  ?  I 
never  seed  that  place  yet !"  and  her  blue  eyes  were  fixed 
on  Gabriel's.  "  What  kind  of  a  place  is  it  ?  Is  it  like 
this  here  ?" 

"  Like  this  ?  Oh,  no  ;  nothing  at  all,"  he  explained. 
"  It 's  a  beautiful  place,  where  the  trees  grow  up  as  thick 
as  you  ever  saw  ;  and  the  grass  is  just  as  green  as  can  be  ; 
and  the  brooks  run  all  the  year!  There  ain't  any  brooks 
here,  nor  any  grass,  and  only  a  few  trees  that  I  could 
count  in  a  minute,  and  they  are  away  off  in  the  park ; 
there 's  no  trees  here.  But  all  the  country  's  beautiful ! 
I  'd  like  to  go  back  there  again,"  he  added  musingly. 

"  Why  don't  you  ?"  asked  the  girl.  "  I  should  think 
you  'd  love  to  stay  there  all  the  time." 


-LITTLE    PILGKIMS.  225 

"  Because  Isaac  would  n't  go  with  me,"  said  he.  "  Who 
would  take  care  of  me,  if  I  should  go  away  from  him  ? 
Who  would  show  me  the  way  back,  either  ?" 

"  Where  is  your  mother,  Gabriel  ?" 

A  tear  swam  about  in  his  eye. 

"  I  hav'n't  got  any  mother,"  said  he,  his  lip  trembling 
with  the  sudden  memory  of  her  all-protecting  love. 
"  She  died." 

Little  Jane  was  silent  a  moment. 

"  Where  did  she  die  ?"  she  asked. 

"  We  lived  in  a  poor-house,  they  called  it ;  but 't  was 
a  great  deal  better  place  than  where  I  live  now,  though  I 
would  n't  dare  to  tell  Isaac  so,  for  all  the  world !  But  I 
loved  the  green  spots  round  there  so  much ;  and  in  the 
summer  time  you  see  I  could  stay  out  doors  'most  all  the 
while,  and  bring  home  as  many  flowers  as  I  wanted  to 
mother ;  and  she  always  looked  so  pleasant,  and  smiled 
on  me,  when  I  brought  them  to  her  and  laid  them  in  her 
lap !  Oh,  if  only  those  days  would  come  back  again — if 
't  was  in  the  poor-house  !" 

"  Did  she  die  there  ?"  pursued  his  companion,  her  sym 
pathies  enlisted  deeply  in  his  story. 

"  Yes,"  said  Gabriel,  with  an  unafiected  sigh. 

"  How  long  ago  was  it  ?  Was  it  a  good  many  years  ? 
Do  you  remember  all  about  it  now  ?" 

"  It  was  only  last  winter,"  answered  he ;  "  only  9,  little 
while  ago.  She  has  n't  been  dead  but  so  long." 

"  But  hav'n't  you  got  a  father,  neither  ?" 

"I  don't  know."  He  had  a  mysterious  look  on  his 
countenance,  as  he  answered  her.  "  I  never  saw  him," 

Again  the  girl  was  silent  with  her  thoughts.  "  Do  you 
think  I  would  like  to  live  in  the  country  ?"  she  afterward 
inquired,  changing  the  subject  somewhat,  as  she  saw  it 
troubled  him. 

10* 


226  LITTLE    PILGEIMS. 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  he  promptly  answered ;  "  yes,  indeed. 
I  only  wish  you  could  go  there  with  me." 

"  Where  would  you  go  ?  Back  to  the  poor-house 
again-?  Would  they  take  you  back  there,  do  you  s'pose  ?" 

"  Oh,  no ;  I  should  n't  want  to  go  there ;  no,  indeed  ; 
and  I  should  n't  like  at  all  to  live  with  Mr.  Nubbles  again ; 
but  I  should  be  glad  enough  to  go  to  such  a  pleasant  spot 
as  Draggledew  Plain,  and  live  with  somebody  like  beau 
tiful  Miss  Rivers,  out  on  the  side  hill  there  above  the 
village.  I  would  n't  want  to  stay  where  Kit  Nubbles  nor 
his  mother  could  see  me." 

Little  Jane  asked  him  how  that  was ;  and  he  went 
about  explaining  it  all  patiently  to  her — his  being  bound 
out  to  li ve  with  Mr.  Nubbles's  folks — his  sufferings  while 
he  remained  in  that  very  strange  family — his  accidental 
acquaintance  with  Martha,  who  would  always  appear  be 
fore  his  eyes  as  almost  an  angel  of  light — and  his  final  es 
cape  under  the  peculiar  circumstances  that  favored  him. 

To  his  whole  narration  the  girl  listened  with  deep  at 
tention,  and  apparent  sympathy.  Her  heart  bled  for  his 
wrongs,  and  innocently  went  out  to  him  with  its  silent 
offers  of  childlike  assistance. 

"  Could  n't  we  go  any  where  into  the  country  but  to 
Draggledew  Plain?"  asked  she.  "Isn't  there  another 
spot  in  the  country  as  pleasant  as  that  ?" 

"  Yes,  plenty  of  'em.  I  came  through  a  good  many 
when  I  run  away  from  there.  Many  a  time  I  thought 
I  'd  rather  stop  where  I  was,  than  to  go  on." 

"  And  Isaac  came  all  the  way  with  you,  did  he  ?" 

"  Every  step  of  it.  I  kept  close  to  him  for  I  had  n't 
got  another  friend  in  the  World  then." 

"  But  do  you  like  Isaac  any  better  than  you  did  those 
cruel  folks  out  there  ?" 

"He  don't  beat  me  so  much  as  they  did.    I  did  n't 


LITTLE    PILGRIMS.  227 

like  that  very  much,  and  when  I  did  n't  know  what 't  was 
for." 

"  Did  they  beat  you  much  out  there  ?"  said  she, 
regarding  him  with  eyes  of  melting  tenderness  and  af 
fection. 

"  Yes,  indeed ;  all  of  'em  did.  First  it  was  Mis'  Nub 
bles,  and  then  Mr.  Nubbles,  and  then  Kit ;  all  beat  me  as 
if  they  liked  to,  and  did  n't  know  what  else  to  do.  I 
could  n't  li ve  there — I  should  have  died  after  a  while.  I 
wanted^  to  run  away  before  I  did.  I'm  glad  enough 
that  I  got  so  far  away  from  'em  all,  and  I  'm  gladder  yet 
that  I  know  you,  Jane ;  but  I  like  to  live  out  in  the 
country  a  great  deal  better  than  this.  It 's  so  grand  out 
there ;  and  so  beautiful.  Oh,  I  feel  so  homesick  some 
times — if  I  did  live  in  a  poor-house  !" 

"But  don't  Isaac  take  care  of  you  here  ?" 

"  Isaac  ?  He  wants  me," — here  he  lowered  his  voice, 
and  took  hold  of  her  shoulder  to  detain  her  while  he 
told  the  shameful  story, — "don't  you  think  that  Isaac 
wants  me  to  steal ! — to  steal !  Did  you  ever  hear  the 
like  of  that?" 

She  was  silent  again,  and  a  deep  shade  of  sadness  stole 
over  her  face. 

"  Out  there,"  he  resumed,  "  I  can  go  just  where  I  want 
to ;  and  there 's  no  danger  of  getting  lost,  or  being  run 
over,  and  good  many  other  things  I  could  tell  you  about. 
Oh,  I  wish  Isaac  would  leave  this  and  go  into  the  country, 
and  live  like  a  good  man !  I  would  be  so  glad  to  work  for 
him,  and  do  every  thing  I  could ;  but  I  can't  steal,  Jane ; 
I  can't  do  that !" 

"Isaac  couldn't  live  there,"  said  she,  as  astute  in  her 
instincts  as  those  far  older  than  herself. 

"  Why  not  ?    Why  could  n't  he  ?"  demanded  Gabriel. 

"Oh,  because,"  said  she;   "he  don't  love  to  be  by 


228  LITTLE    PILGRIMS. 

himself  so  much ;  and  you  say  you  have  to  be  alone  out 
there  a  good  deal." 

"  Yes  ;  and  I  like  that  so  much  the  more." 

"  And  that 's  why  Isaac  would  n't.  No,  I  don't  be 
lieve  he  'd  ever  go  there ;  no,  nor  Mis'  Sharkie,  either. 
If  she  only  would,  now  !" 

"  Do  you  like  Mis'  Sharkie  ?"  asked  Gabriel. 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  answered  that  she 
did  n't  like  to  tell. 

"  Does  she  beat  you  then  ?"  pursued  he. 

"Sometimes  she  does;  when  she — when  she — when — 
but  she  don't  know  anything  about  it,  though.  She  isn't 
so  much  to  blame  for  it,  you  see." 

"  No,  I  don't  see  !"  he  replied,  impressively.  "  If  she 
beats  you,  she 's  awful !  and  that 's  what  I  think  of  her ! 
I  wish  I  could  do  as  I  want  to.  I  wish  I  was  a  man,  Jane  !" 

"What  for,  Gabriel?" 

"  Because — then  I  should  n't  let  Mis'  Sharkie  whip 
you ;  nor  any  body  else  either  !  I  'd  take  care  of  you, 
Jane !  That 's  why  I  wish  I  was  a  man,  Jane !" 

The  girl  felt  manifestly  grateful  for  this  evidence  of  his 
regard,  and  was  none  too  young,  either,  to  understand  to 
the  last  syllable  what  it  meant.  She  cast  her  eyes  up  to 
the  face  of  Gabriel,  and  with  a  silent  look  alone  thanked 
him.  That  look  was  eloquence  itself. 

Reaching  a  corner,  they  heard  a  voice. 

"  Hello,  my  son !" 

They  looked  round,  and  there  stood  Billy  Bottes. 

"And  little  Jane,  too !"  he  exclaimed,  raising  his  voice. 
"  Where  've  ye  both  been  ?  What  've  ye  been  a  doin'  of?" 

They  explained  to  him  that  they  were  engaged  about 
nothing  but  the  pursuit  of  their  own  innocent  pleasures, 
strolling  wheresoever  the  fancy  took  them. 

"  Then  let  me  show  ye  how  to  save  yer  time,"  said 


LITTLE    PILGRIMS.  229 

Billy.  "  You  know 't  they  say 't  time  's  money ;  an'  if 
'tis,  then  you  '11  stan'  a  chance  to  lay  up  soinethin' ! 
Come  along  a  little  with  me !" 

They  exchanged  looks  of  inquiry  with  one  another, 
and  then  followed  silently  on.  The  way  led  back  through 
the  alley  up  which  he  had  just  come,  and  finally  took 
them  into  a  labyrinth  of  alleys  and  lanes,  and  passages, 
and  courts,  and  dark  doorways,  that  would  have  been 
enough  to  confuse  beyond  recovery  any  head  less  at 
home  in  such  localities  than  that  of  Billy  himself;  but 
through  every  one  of  which  he  piloted  them  with  a  dex 
terity  worthy  the  attainments  of  a  secret  agent  of  the 
police. 

"  Jest  come  down  here !"  said  he,  pointing  down  a 
dark  stairway,  from  which  arose  savors  strong  enough  to 
breed  a  pestilence. 

Little  Jane  looked  at  Gabriel  as  if  she  would  ask — "Is 
it  best  to  go  ?" 

"  Come  along !"  again  called  Billy,  leading  the  way 
down  himself. 

They  kept  on  after  him.  In  a  few  steps  they  arrived 
on  the  floor  of  a  low  cellar,  over  which  were  confusedly 
strewn  rags,  filth,  straw,  broken  pieces  of  old  chairs  and 
of  a  table,  and  a  few  torn  articles  of  cast-away  clothing. 

A  dull  light  was  just  burning  in  the  further  side  of  the 
apartment,  to  which  he  silently  directed  their  attention. 
They  all  three  approached  it.  The  sight  that  there 
offered  itself,  accustomed  as  they  more  or  less  were  to 
the  scenes  of  misery  and  wretchedness  around  them, 
struck  horror  even  to  their  hearts.  They  shrank  back 
aghast  and  fearful. 

Lying  there  upon  a  pile  of  mere  filth  and  uncleanness, 
was  the  body  of  a  negro-woman  with  an  infant  resting 
across  her  outstretched  arm.  Both  were  dead ;  and  the 


230  LITTLE    PILGRIMS. 

face  of  the  woman  upturned  to  the  wall,  with  its  eyes 
and  mouth  partially  closed,  sent  a  chill  to  their  feelings 
from  which  they  could  scarcely  recover. 

"  Darkies !"  exclaimed  the  little  wretch,  pointing  to 
them  with  a  laugh. 

"Oh!  let's  go!  let's  go!"  said  little  Jane,  shudder- 
ingly.  "  I  want  to  breathe  fresh  air  again  !  Come  Ga 
briel  !" — and  they  turned  abruptly  and  went  out  by  the 
same  way  they  came,  their  wicked  little  guide  following 
after,  and  filling  their  ears  with  the  repulsive  accounts  he 
had  collected  respecting  the  scene  they  had  witnessed. 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

CHOWDEK   AND   CHARITY. 

A  FEW  days  after,  having  already  been  furnished  by 
Isaac  with  forty-eight  hours'  imprisonment  for  failing  to 
obey  his  directions  in  the  matter  of  pocket-picking,  Ga 
briel  was  out  again,  sauntering  up  and  down  the  streets 
alone.  He  felt  more  sorrowful  than  ever,  for  he  saw 
that  his  way  was  even  a  more  cheerless  one  than  that 
which  he  was  traveling  under  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Nubbles. 
Nothing  seemed  attractive.  Nothing  looked  hopeful. 
The  people  who  passed  him,  were  a  hard-faced,  cold- 
hearted  set  of  people,  caring  nothing  in  the  world  whether 
he  was  alive  or  dead. 

He  at  length  came  to  a  narrow  street  in  the  neighbor 
hood  of  the  wharves,  through  which  a  throng  seemed  to 
be  moving.  It  was  now  one  o'clock.  All  the  city  clocks 
had  successively  struck  the  hour ;  and  now  a  single  bell, 
perched  in  a  lofty  belfry,  was  swinging,  and  tumbling, 
and  turning  famous  somersets,  telling  the  weary  laborers 
of  the  town  that  their  dinner  hour  was  at  hand.  The 
ringing  of  this  bell  was  one  of  the  old-time  customs  that 
were  still  suffered  to  remain. 

In  tliis  street  where  Gabriel  was  idly  wandering,  no 
vehicles  but  carts  and  drays,  and  heavy  trucks  ever 
threaded  their  way ;  and  just  now  the  vehicles  were  all 
quiet,  and  their  drivers,  smutty  and  heated,  were  elbow 
ing  their  way  along  to  dinner. 


232  CHOW  DEE    AND    CHAKITY. 

One  man,  with  an  open  and  benevolent  face,  belonging 
to  a  troop  that  were  hurrying  along,  turned  around  to  see 
what  so  frail  a  child  as  Gabriel  could  be  doing  there, 
jostled  and  knocked  about  as  he  was  by  the  crgwd,  and 
asked  him  kindly  where  he  was  going.. 

"Nowhere,"  answered  the  boy. 

"  Nowhere,  is  it  ?"  said  he ;  "  then,  by  George,  you 
sh'll  go  up  to  dinner  with  me ;  for  it 's  a  mighty  few 
sharks  I  've  seen  in  my  short  day,  't  ever  looked  a  half  as 
much  starved  as  you  do !  Come,  my  little  lad,"  he 
reached  down  and  took  him  by  the  hand,  "jest  go  up 
them  stairs  with  me,  an'  you  shall  have  all  you  can  eat, 
for  once  !  Come  !" 

His  manner  was  so  persuasive,  and  Gabriel,  by  much 
compelled  abstinence  during  his  imprisonment,  was  so 
famished,  that  he  yielded  almost  without  a  syllable,  suf 
fering  the  stranger  to  carry  him  along  with  him.  The 
man  was  dressed  like  a  sailor,  and  soon  joined  his  associ 
ates  again. 

The  dining-room  was  just  at  the  head  of  a  flight  of  very 
dark  and  narrow  stairs,  and  was  familiarly  known  to  all 
who  were  in  the  daily  habit  of  frequenting  it,  by  the 
euphonious  name  of  the  "  Bread  Basket."  Thither  tend 
ed  this  crowd,  hungry  for  dinner. 

They  came  up  to  the  meal  of  the  day  in  squads  and 
squadrons ;  men  all  sunburnt,  hirsute,  and  swarthy. 
Some  hastily  flung  away  their  quids,  preparing  themselves 
more  perfectly  for  the  approaching  exercise  in  gastrono 
my.  Some  threw  their  short-jackets  over  their  shoul 
ders,  and  tried  to  prig  themselves  up  a  little,  where  they 
fancied  they  needed  it.  Others  were  chattering  with  one 
another  of  the  work  of  the  day,  of  their  wages,  their 
prospects,  and  the  weather. 

It  was  a  very  pleasant  pseudonyme — The  Bread  Basket 


CHOWDER    AND     CHARITY.  233 

— for  a  sailor's  boarding-house ;  and  these  men  seemed, 
as  they  pointedly  expressed  it,  "  to  glory  as  much  in  the 
name,  as  the  vittles."  Could  an  observer  but  have  taken 
his  stand  at  the  door  of  the  long  dining-room,  where  he 
might  see  these  strong  men  crowding  up  the  stairs  and 
afterward  filing  off  around  the  table,  his  feelings  would 
have  been  inexpressibly  regaled  with  the  picture. 

Cod,  haddock,  and  halibut  were  smoking  on  the  board, 
emitting  appetizing  fumes  and  savors  in  such  plenty  as 
soon  filled  the  whole  apartment.  Exactly  in  the  middle 
of  the  table,  long  as  it  was,  was  set  a  huge  leviathan 
vessel,  in  which  chunks  of  white  cod,  with  plump  bits  of 
bread,  and  highly  savory  messes  of  potato,  were  bobbing 
and  swimming  leisurely  about ;  a  flood  of  rich  and  reek 
ing  gravy  swirling  every  where  around  them.  Into  this 
deep  vessel  was  thrust  a  long  ladle,  all  ready  for  its  bail 
ing  out  into  the  dishes  of  the  hungry  diners. 

What  with  the  continuous  buzzing  of  conversation  kept 
up  by  the  men,  who  were  ranged  orderly  around  the 
room,  and  the  continual  bustle  of  Mr.  Plipharpy  and  his 
two*  obsequious  assistants,  there  seemed  quite  confusion 
enough  for  any  place.  Yet  it  was  all  pleasant.  The 
breeze  drew  faintly  into  the  room  through  the  open  win 
dows  from  the  water,  and  felt  in  a  degree  refreshing. 

Mr.  Hipharpy — the  host  of  the  occasion — wore  no 
jacket,  though  he  had  spread  a  little  white  apron  before 
him ;  and  being,  moreover,  so  much  taken  up  with  getting 
the  things  on  the  table,  he  scarcely  took  time  to  observe 
whether  that  day  had  brought  him  any  new  customers 
or  not.  He  had  a  bald,  and  rather  venerable  crown,  and 
his  round  and  protruding  forehead  shone  like  glass.  A 
beady  perspiration  stood  on  his  knobby  temples,  the 
legitimate  effect  of  the  exertions  incident  to  the  noon 
day  meal.  When  nothing  else  engaged  him,  he  went 


234  CHOWDER    AND    CHARITY. 

with  a  brisk  step  up  and  down  the  length  of  the  table, 
driving  knots  and  herds  of  flies  before  him  with  a  feathery 
brush  that  he  wielded  with  great  dexterity. 

Many  an  eye,  that  had  before  then  looked  the  terrific 
dangers  of  the  deep  right  in  the  face,  was  fixed  with  equal 
concern  npon  the  movements  of  the  landlord  then.  Many 
a  dry  mouth  watered,  waiting  for  the  expectant  signal. 
One  spoke  to  another  of  his  several  choices  in  the  matter 
of  fish,  and  fowl,  and  flesh  ;  and  added  random  opinions 
regarding  vegetables,  and  the  modes  of  cooking  them ; 
yet  for  no  single  moment  was  the  person  of  Mr.  Hipharpy 
suffered  to  go  out  of  their  sight. 

Finally  the  word  was  given. 

Has  the  reader  ever  seen  a  herd  of  buffalo — but  no ; 
there  is  little  likelihood  of  that.  Let  me  drop  simile,  and 
come  close  up  to  the  reality.  Well — there  was  hardly 
any  such  thing  as  arranging  them  in  particular  seats ;  if 
that  had  ever  been  the  custom.  Had  all  the  waiting- 
men  of  one  of  our  hotel-palaces  been  mustered  there  in 
force,  their  proffered  services  would  have  been  blown 
aside  like  very  thistle-down  in  a  wind-gust.  Nobody 
seated  them ;  they  seated  themselves.  Nobody  was  at 
hand  to  help  them,  for  they  helped  themselves.  Every 
man  fixed  his  eye  fiercely  on  just  what  he  thought  he 
wanted,  and  his  quick  hand  followed  close  after. 

Gabriel's  friend  had  secured  a  seat  apiece  for  them 
both,  and  they  sat  up  at  the  feast  with  the  others,  the 
sailor  looking  out  that  the  boy  got  as  good  as  the  best, 
and  all  he  wanted. 

How  the  gravy  flew  and  spattered  all  around  the  large 
tureen !  How  the  great  white  cod  flapped  their  sides — 
in  piecemeal,  to  be  sure — on  every  plate  around  the 
board  !  How  the  strong  arms  were  crossed  and  recrossed 
on  their  way  to  halibut,  lobster,  and  flounder!  And 


CHOWDER    AND    CHARITY.  235 

then,  if  one  could  not  help  himself,  he  rose  to  his  feet, 
and,  leaning  far  over  the  table,  harpooned  his  fish  with 
his  fork,  and  brought  it  up  finally  alongside  ! 

One  would  have  been  amused,  too,  to  observe  how 
suddenly  the  noise  had  stopped.  All  conversation  now 
was  quite  at  an  end.  Eating  took  precedence.  The  con 
tinual  clatter  of  knives,  and  forks,  and  plated  spoons, 
sounded  like  the"  ring  of  clashing  muskets  and  bayonets 
in  battle.  No  one  seemed  to  mind  his  neighbor  at 
all.  None  thought  of  any  thing  but  himself,  and  his 
dinner. 

Mr.  Hipharpy  hurried  back  occasionally  from  the  lit 
tle  retreat  of  a  closet  to  which  he  had  betaken  himself, 
and  glanced  over  the  table  to  assure  himself  that  nothing 
went  wrong ;  and  then  plunged  immediately  into  his  re 
tirement  again.  During  the  dinner-hour  his  face  was  al 
ways  redder  than  ever.  The  two  assistants,  however, 
kept  continually  sailing  at  their  leisure  up  and  down 
the  long  shores  of  the  table,  albeit  very  little  demand 
seemed  to  be  made  for  their  services. 

The  board  itself  furnished  a  conglomerated  scene.  To 
enumerate  the  kinds  and  varieties  of  fish  there  were  upon 
it,  or  the  numerous  methods — approved  and  otherwise — 
of  their  preparation,  would  necessarily  lay  under  contri 
bution  the  descriptive  talents  of  an  eminent  chef  du 
cuisine  himself.  To  tell  how  many  said  they  preferred 
clams  to  chowder — and  how  many  chowder  to  lobster — 
and  how  many  halibut  to  flounders — and  so  on  to  the 
end  of  the  lengthening  chapter,  would  be  little  less  than 
a  hopeless  and  unsatisfactory  labor. 

At  length  one  pushed  back.    And  another. 

"  Ain't  you  goin'  to  take  any  pie,  Jack  ?"  said  a  friend 
to  the  next  at  his  elbow.  "  I  did  n't  see  it."  "  Nor 
pud'n'  neither  ?"  "  Ha  !  ha  !  I  'm  a  good  deal  better 


236  CHOWDER    AND    CHARITY. 

off  'n  I  thought  I  was !  Of  course  I  eat  pies ;  an'  pud'n's 
as  well !  Hand  over,  will  ye  ?" 

Little  Gabriel  could  scarcely  economize  his  time  so 
skillfully  as  to  allow  himself  leisure  for  seeing  all  that  his 
eyes  fairly  ached  to  see,  and  for  eating  his  dinner  too ; 
and  the  few  and  frequent  words  of  the  friend  next  him, 
who  seemed  quite  anxious  to  fat  up  his  young  protege  at 
a  single  meal,  helped  to  interrupt  very*  seriously  both 
the  course  of  his  observations  and  of  his  appetite. 

At  about  the  winding  up  of  the  several  fish  courses,  a 
man  who  sat  at  one  of  the  ends  of  the  long  table  rose 
in  his  place,  and  rapped  briskly  two  or  three  times  with 
his  knife-handle.  Instantly  a  double  row  of  expressive 
eyes  was  directed  toward  him,  all  the  heads  leaning 
down  over  their  plates. 

"  Shipmates,"  said  a  pleasant-looking  man,  seeming 
half  sad  and  half  humorous — "  I  must  tell  you't  I  didn't 
git  up  to  try  to  speechify  at  all,  for  that 's  what  a  feller 
like  me  can't  pretend  to  do  ;  but  I  've  come  across  some- 
thin'  I  felt  as  though  I  wanted  to  tell  ye  about.  It 's  a 
piece  o'  misery  I  've  seen — raal  right-down  wretchedness, 
that  orter  be  'tended  to.  When  a  storrn  's  a  brewin', 
yer  know,  we  take  in  sail.  I  've  seen  a  storm  a-comin' 
on  a  person  lately,  an'  the  sail  all  took  in,  too.  But  that 's 
no  help  in  this  case.  It 's  a  case  't  wants  relievin' ;  an' 
all  I  want  to-day  is  to  ask  if  you  won't  lend  a  feller  a 
helpin'  hand.  Shipmates,  will  yer  do  it,  now?" 

He  paused.  The  eyes  of  the  sturdy  men  went  from 
the  face  of  the  speaker  to  the  faces  of  one  another,  and 
the  inquiry  went  round  the  table,  in  low  voices — "  Who 
is  it  ?  Who  is  it  ?" 

"It's  the  case  of  a  poor  widder,"  continued  he, finally, 
"  who  's  been  a-sewin'  her  life  away  for  a  man,  and 's  got 
so  fur  reduced  that  she  can't  sew  no  more  ,•  and  that 's 


CHOW  DEE    AND     CHARITY.  237 

jest  all  there  is  to  it.  The  man  orter  help  her  himself — 
you  '11  say.  An'  so  he  had.  But  he  won't ;  he  's  too  on- 
nat'ral  to  do  it !  He  hain't  got  any  soul,  and  so  he  '11 
manage  to  escape  what  he  'd  be  sure  to  get  otherwise. 
But  that 's  neither  here  nor  there.  The  poor  woman 
wants  help ;  and  she  wants  it  now,  if  she  ever  gits  it. 
Will  ye  all  give  us  a  lift  ?"  9 

At  once  every  hard  hand  found  its  way  to  a  pocket. 
They  no  more  thought  of  such  a  thing  as  suspecting  the 
perfect  integrity  of  the  speech-maker  than  men  on  'Change 
would  be  guilty  of  omitting  that  performance  in  the  case 
of  those  who  throng  around  them. 

"  I  've  been  and  seen  the  case  myself,"  he  told  them 
again,  "  an'  can  certify  it 's  a  reg'lar  genooine  ;  there 's 
no  clap-trap,  hocus-pocus  about  it  at  all.  The  woman's 
on  a  bed  that 's  *most  likely  to  be  her  death-bed.  She 
thinks  so  herself.  All  her  comfort  is  jest  one  little  girl, 
her  only  daughter ;  and  she  is  a  grief  to  her  mother  be 
cause  she  can't  see  what 's  to  become  of  her.  But  I  'm  a- 
goin'  to  try  an'  look  arter  that  myself.  Only  for  now, 
help  me  relieve  the  sufferin'  of  this  poor  sick  woman,  an' 
it  '11  come  round  all  right." 

A  murmur  of  voices  arose  on  every  side  of  him. 

"  I  don't  ask  only  for  little,"  he  added,  "  an'  don't  ex 
pect  any  body  here  's  got  very  much  to  give,  anyhow. 
But  jest  let  the  heart  have  fair  play  for  once,  an'  Heav'n 
'11  make  it  all  right  in  the  end  in  poor  Jack's  account,  I 
know ! — Here 's  my  hat ;  an'  here  's  two  silver  dollars. 
Pass  her  round  !  Pass  her  round  !" 

As  he  clinked  his  hard  money  in  the  hat  he  handed  it 
to  his  neighbor,  who  performed  a  like  operation  and 
then  passed  it  on.  It  made  the  entire  circuit  of  the 
table.  It  would  have  done  a  man's  heart  good  to  see  the 
pleasure  those  sunburnt,  hardy  men  seemed  to  take  in 


238  CHOWDER    AND    CHARITY. 

heaping  up  a  little  store  for  the  sick  widow.  The  hat 
came  back  to  its  starting-point  again.  With  moisture 
making  a  film  in  his  eyes,  the  man  thanked  them  the  best 
way  he  could  in  his  homely  words,  promising  to  bring 
them  a  full  report  of  the  effect  of  their  benevolence  at 
no  distant  time. 

And  here  was  a  blessed  deed  of  charity  done  without 
any  of  the  parade  of  committees,  or  of  the  ostentation 
of  proud  benevolence — done  in  the  purlieus  of  wharves, 
and  slips,  and  narrow  alleys — done  in  broad  noon-day,  in 
the  dining-room  of  a  sailor's  eating-house !  There  was 
no  cold  calculation  in  it,  as  if  every  chance  was  to  be 
counted  off  on  the  ends  of  one's  fingers  before  the  step 
could  be  taken ;  there  was  none  of  the  politic  hesitation 
about  it  that  chills  before  it  warms  and  makes  glad ;  it 
was  only  the  spontaneousness  of  generous  impulses  flow 
ing  directly  out  of  human  and  healthy  hearts ! 

Gabriel's  friend  led  him  along  back  with  him  as  far  as 
he  went,  asking  him  all  sorts  of  plain  questions  about  his 
mode  of  life,  and  exhibiting  to  the  boy  a  great  deal  of 
the  sympathy  for  which  he  so  much  hungered.  "  At  any 
rate,"  said  he,  as  they  parted  on  the  corner,  "  you  know 
where  you  can  git  a  good^  dinner,  any  day  you  want  one, 
don't  ye  ?  Jest  whenever  you  feel  hungry  in  the  street, 
my  lad,  if  it 's  about  this  time  o'  day,  come  over  and  stan' 
in  the  door  of  the  Bread  Basket,  and  wait  till  you  see 
me  !  Will  you  do  that?" 

Promising  compliance,  though  he  hardly  knew  what  he 
did  do  or  say,  he  turned  to  see  his  mysterious  friend  swing 
his  stout  arms  down  a  hot  and  dirty  street,  and  then  lost 
himself  once  more  in  the  crowds  and  echoes  that  make 
the  never-ceasing,  never-silent  ground-swell  of  the  life  of 
the  metropolis. 

He  could  hardly  help  comparing  Isaac  with  such  men 


CHOWDER    AND    CHARITY.  239 

as  he  saw  that  day  at  dinner ;  and  wondered  why  it  was 
that  he,  being  apparently  no  poorer  than  they,  should 
choose  to  follow  such  a  strange  mode  of  life  as  he  did, 
when  honest  labor,  in  honest  sunshine,  was  as  ready  for 
him  as  for  any  one  of  them.  And  pondering  and  wander 
ing,  the  afternoon  slipped  wholly  away,  and  his  heart  sunk 
within  him  as  he  thought  of  the  report  he  must  that  night 
make  to  the  man  who  mistakenly  called  himself  the  boy's, 
protector.  If  vultures  are  protectors  over  lambs,  then 
was  Isaac  one  over  the  lamb  he  had  inveigled  within  the 
easy  reach  of  his  terrible  talons. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

HIGHLY     ENTERTAINING. 

WHILE  Mr.  Dandelly  was  right  in  the  midst  of  his 
search  for  something  to  say  in  favor  of  Mr.  Holliday, 
flapping  the  leaves  of  his  romance  to  and  fro  without  a 
thought  or  an  idea  in  his  head,  the  latter  gentleman 
himself  stepped  across  the  piazza.  Dandelly  looked  up. 
"Who's  that?"  said  he,  as  if  he  were  alarmed  about 
something.  But  before  either  of  the  girls  could  make 
him  any  answei',  even  had  such  been  their  inclination, 
their  visitor  entered  the  room. 

"  There,"  said  he,  laying  a  fragrant  bunch  of  wild- 
flowers  into  the  lap  of  Martha ;  "  you  must  n't  quarrel 
over  them,  now  !  I  could  n't  stay  to  divide  them.  You 
must  do  that  yourselves.  Do  you  think  you  really  can  ?" 

"  This  is  Mr.  Dandelly,"  said  Mary,  her  eyes  kindling 
with  a  frolicsome  feeling,  while  she  pointed  ever  so 
slightly  in  the  direction  of  their  guest.  "  You  are  well 
acquainted  with  him,  Mr.  Holliday,  I  believe  ?  At  least 
he  claims  a  pretty  close  kind  of  an  acquaintance  !" 

The  young  author  looked  at  the  other,  who  was  now 
timidly  advancing  a  step  or  two  to  meet  him,  and  merely 
bowed  :  it  was  a  nod  of  the  slightest  degree  of  recogni 
tion  in  the  world.  Dandelly,  who  had  unfortunately  half 
thrust  out  his  hand,  saw  at  once  the  propriety  of  pulling 
it  in  again ;  which  he  did  not  without  some  little  tremor 


HIGHLY    ENTERTAINING.  241 

on  the  part  of  that  member,  and  then  resumed  his  seat. 
His  color  had  suddenly  changed,  and  his  whole  manner 
become  embarassed.  Neither  of  the  girls  felt  any  partic 
ular  desire  to  relieve  him  of  the  troublesome  topic  of  his 
talk,  but  waited  and  watched  to  see  him  properly  support 
the  remarks  he  had  but  a  moment  before  been  indulging 
in  with  such  flippancy. 

"  Just  reading  your  book,  Mr.  Holliday,"  said  he,  quite 
obsequiously,  and  trying  to  regain  his  equanimity  with  a 
forced  smile. 

"Ah  !"  said  the  young  author,  looking  from  him  to  the 
girls,  while  he  sat  down  near  the  table,  "how  did  you 
know  it  was  mine  ?" 
f  "  Oh,  but  the  young  ladies  told  me •!" 

"  Yes,"  said  Mary ;  "  and  from  his  conversation  one 
might  have  been  led  to  think  he  knew  all  about  it  even 
before  we  gave  him  the  information." 

"Why  so?"  inquired  Mr.  Holliday,  with  a  pleasant 
look  in  his  face. 

"  Oh,  he  seemed  to  be  so  perfectly  acquainted  with 
you,"  said  Macy ;  "  I  thought  of  course  you  must  have 
let  him  into  the  secret  long  ago." 

"  I  don't  know,"  rejoined  the  young  author  ;  "  I  think 
our  acquaintance  must  be  very  slight  at  the  best.  Really, 
I  can  not  say  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of — " 

"  You  know  I  called  down  at  your  place  ?"  broke  in 
Dandellyr  eager  to  get  out  of  it  now. 

"  When  was  that  ?"  coolly  inquired  the  other. 

"  Well — once  when  you  was  to  work  in  your  garding, 
you  know — " 

"  Urn !"  said  Mr.  Holliday,  trying  to  think  of  it  all. 
If  truth  were  tp  be  told,  the  reader  must  know  that  to 
the  mind  of  the  young  man  the  person  and  the  manners 
of  this  brainless  fop  were  as  odious  as  is  possible  to  be 

11 


242  HIGHLY    ENTERTAINING. 

imagined.  He  felt  there  was  no  such  thing  as  putting  up 
with  him.  His  presence  irispired  thorough  disgust,  and 
nothing  less.  There  was  such  an  easy  impudence  about 
him,  such  cool  effrontery,'so  much  of  that  peculiar  quality 
that  never  feels  rebuked,  simply  because  it  hardly  knows 
what  a  rebuke  is — like  the  sturdy  bravery  of  some  sol 
diers,  that  is  never  vanquished  because  it  is  so  ignorant 
of  what  that  word  means — that  it  required  quite  the  full 
aid  and  comfort  of  all  the  cardinal  virtues,  with  patience 
at  their  head,  to  even  so  much  as  put  up  with  him.  This 
idea  had  entered  Arthur  Holliday's  head  from  the  first 
interview. 

"  And  I  come  to  see  you,  you  know,  Mr.  Holliday," 
went  on  the  creature  more  eagerly  still,  "  when  you  was 
out—" 

They  laughed  aloud  at  that — the  idea  of  growing  inti 
mate  with  a  man  by  calling  on  him  when  he  was  not  at 
home. 

"  And — and — and  a  good  many  other  times,"  added  he, 
rather  confusedly. 

"  Yes,"  returned  the  author,  slowly  and  after  a  pause  ; 
"  I  think  I  don't  remember." 

The  eyes  of  Mr.  Dandelly  were  twinkling  industriously. 
Bold  as  he  was,  and  unscrupulous  as  he  sometimes  was  in 
expedients,  for  once  he  was  forcibly  struck  with  the  idea 
that  he  had  found  his  match.  He  felt  that  he  had  got 
into  a  corner.  "  If  I  had  only  gone  out  five  rninutes  be 
fore,"  thought  he ;  "  but  it 's  too  late  now  to  think  of  that ! 
I  '11  make  the  best  of 't,  and  get  away  as  quick  as  I  can !" 

So  putting  on  a  countenance  of  more  assurance,  he  was 
about  to  venture  some  kind  and  patronizing  remark  about 
the  book  he  still  kept  in  his  hand,  when  he  was  forestalled 
by  Mary  herself,  who  was  wicked  enough  to  say  to  Mr. 
Holliday — 


•**• 


HIGHLY    ENTERTAINING.  243 

"  Mr.  Dandelly  was  just  reruai-king,  before  you  came 
in,  that  he  had  n't  a  very  high  opinion  of  your  talents ! 
Were  you  aware  that  he  was  a  critic,  before  ?" 

"  No,  I  was  n't,  indeed." 

"  Miss  Rivers !  Miss  Rivers,  now  !"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Dandelly,  half  playfully,  but  a  good  big  half  petulantly. 

"  Sir  ?"  said  Mary,  affecting  much  seriousness  and  dig 
nity. 

"  It 's  hardly  fair  to  do  that !    I  don't  think  it  is,  now !" 

"  I  like  to  have  my  friends  acquainted  with  all  the  just 
and  enlightened  criticisms  that  are  passed  upon  them," 
added  she,  as  relentless  as  Fate  itself. 

"  It 's  a  good  plan,  I  think  myself,"  assented  Martha, 
perfectly  satisfied  with  the  merited  punishment  she  saw 
going  on. 

"  I  believe  you  said,  sir,  did  you  not,"  continued  Mary, 
directing  her  question  to  the  victim  present,  "  that  you 
had  n't  much  opinion  of  these  writers — scribblers  was 
what  you  called  them — that  wrote  such  trifling  things  as 
stories  ?" 

He  begged  with  his  eyes  that  she  would  keep  silent ; 
but  she  went  on  : — 

"  You  said  you  could  write  as  well  yourself,  I  think,  if 
you  had  but  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  and  were  not  too  lazy ; 
was  n't  it  something  like  that  you  said,  eh  ?" 

"  Yes,  it  was — it  was,"  answered  Martha. 

"Well,  and  I  could,  I  really  believe,"  he  blustered, 
hoping  to  take  off  the  edge  of  the  satire  a  little. 

Mr.  Holliday  sat  and  enjoyed  it.  He  said  little  or 
nothing,  and  there  was  no  need  of  it.  The  girls  were 
abundantly  able  to  manage  the  case  alone. 

"  How  strange  you  do  not  turn  your  attention  to  liter 
ature !"  said  Mary.  "Do  pray  take  the  big  bushel  off 
your  light,  and  let  the  world  have  the  benefit  of  its  shine !" 


244  HIGHLY    ENTERTAINING. 

Ho  laughed  with  the  rest — he  did  not  know  why. 

"  Perhaps  your  time  is  too  much  occupied  otherwise  ?" 
suggested  Martha. 

"  Well,  I  am  kep'  rather  busy,  I  allow,"  said  he,  wip 
ing  the  perspiration  from  his  forehead. 

"  Yes,  but  could  n't  you  just  squeeze  out  an  hour  or  so 
each  day,  that  people  might  have  the  benefit  of  your  pro 
ductions  in  an  intellectual  way  ?" 

"  An  hour,  Mary  !"  exclaimed  her  sister ;  why,  that 's 
absolutely  throwing  time  away  !  Half  of  that — a  quarter 
of  it,  you  know,  would  be  quite  as  much  as  is  needed  !" 

"  I  like  your  book,  Mr.  Holliday,"  broke  out  the  un 
easy  fop,  directing  his  expressiveless  eyes  to  the  young 
author.  "That  is,  if  it  is  yours;  and  the  ladies  say  it 
is!" 

"  But  you  seemed  to  think  only  a  few  moments  ago," 
persisted  Mary,  "  that  you  did  n't  like  Mr.  Holliday's 
writings ;  nor  Mr.  Holliday  himself,  for  that  matter ; 
did  n't  he,  Mat  ?" 

"  I  'in  sure  one  would  certainly  have  thought  so,  if 
any  thing  at  all  was  to  be  thought  about  it,"  replied  her 
ready  sister. 

"  There,  now,  how  can  you  say,  Mr.  Dandelly,  that  you 
like  the  book  ?  Besides,  you  've  never  read  it  at  all ! 
How  can  you  judge  of  a  work  till  you  have  at  least  paid 
it  the  compliment  of  looking  it  over  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  no,"  said  he,  quickly,  catching  at  the  tiniest 
straw  that  floated  near  him,  "I  don't  mean  that  I  had 
read  it !  You  doia't  understand  me,  Miss  Rivers ;  you 
don't  understand  me,  I  see !" 

"  I  'm  afraid  I  do  not,  really,"  said  she. 

"  I  meant,  you  know — " 

"  No,  I  don't  know." 

"  — That  I  liked  the  looks  of  the  book ;  now  you  know 


HIGHLY    ENTERTAINING.  245 

f 

that  was  what  I  meant,  and  all  I  meant ;  and  the  title 
struck  me,  too." 

"Yes,"  suggested  Martha,  looking  at  Mr.  Holliday, 
who  had  buried  his  burning  face  in  the  bunch  of  wild 
flowers  that  he  snatched  up  again ;  "  yes,  but  you  thought 
that  it  was  a  waste  of  material,  as  it  was;  for  you  wondered 
how  people  could  fancy  a  book  that  had  n't  gilt  edges !" 

"  Cornered !  Floored !  Com-plete-ly  down !"  whis 
pered  Mr.  Dandelly's  dismayed  heart  to  itself. 

"Do  you  know  the  botany  names  of  all  them  wild 
flowers  you  've  got  in  your  hand,  Mr.  Holliday  ?"  asked 
he,  struggling  only  to  change  the  subject,  he  cared  noth 
ing  how  abruptly. 

"Well,  no,  I  can't  say  that  I  do,  sir;  I  can  give  you 
their  Yankee  names,  however." 

"  Oh,  I  s'pose  I  know  them  already.  Be  there  very 
many  flowers  in  the  woods  this  season  ?  I  declare  I  've 
been  so  busy  with  myself  that  I  ha'n't  hardly  had  time 
to  go  into  the  woods !  It 's  ray  delight  though  when  I 
can  find  good  company  to  go  with !" 

"  Is  it  ?  Yes,"  slowly  returned  Mr.  Holliday,  again 
plunging  in  among  the  laurels,  honeysuckles,  wild  roses, 
anemones,  and  what-nots  that  helped  swell  the  bunch. 

"  You  don't  find  much  company  hereabouts,  I  think 
you  said  once  ?"  remarked  Mary,  determined  to  give  him 
no  rest  yet. 

"  Very  little,  very  little,  I  assure  you.  Dreadful  dull 
all  round  here ;  never  got  into  such  a  place  ;  place  pleas 
ant  enough,  but  nobody  in  it ;  declare — wish  there  was 
more  folks  like  you  here ;  soon  be  lively  in  such  aw  case 
as  that !  But  you  see  I  shan't  stay  here  long.  I  've  got 
one  or  two  short  visits  to  make  round  among  my  friends ; 
and  then,  says  I,  away  for  Saratogy !  Wish  you  was  all 
goin' !  Why  can't  you  ?" 


246  HIGHLY    ENTERTAINING. 

« 

"  If  you  'd  only  promise  to  show  us  about  there,"  said 
Mary,  half  laughing. 

"  I  would  !"  spoke  he,  very  emphatically.  "  I  would !  I  'd 
show  you  all  the  lions  there  be  there,  every  one  of 'em  !" 

"  You  are  really  very  kind,  sir,"  returned  Martha,  "  but 
we  shall  unfortunately  be  obliged  to  stay  among  the 
lambs  out  here  this  summer!  I  have  no  doubt  your  ser 
vices  would  be  invaluable  to  any  one,  however." 

"  No,  nor  I,"  added  Mary. 

"  Oh,  well,"  returned  he,  laying  down  the  book  and 
getting  up  himself,  "  I  guess  I  shall  have  to  get  down  to 
the  village  again,  if  I  think  of  gettin'  to  the  Springs  ;  so 
I  must  bid  you  good  day.  With  a  wave  of  his  hat,  "  Mr. 
Holliday,  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  call  on  you  agin,  when 
ever  you  '11  be  at  home ;  I  'd  like  to  go  into  your  room, 
and  look  over  your  books,  and  git  a  little  better  ac 
quainted  generally,  you  know  ; — " 

"  Yes,  yes ;  I  think  I  know,  sir !"  shiveringly  replied 
the  other,  while  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  a  sort  of 
signal  for  the  girls  to  laugh. 

"  And  I  hope  you  '11  let  me  introduce  you  to  my  friends, 
the  Laws,  some  day,  ladies,"  he  added,  addressing  the 
girls,  who  could  not  keep  their  countenances  sufficiently 
to  look  him  in  the  face.  "  You  '11  like  them,  I  know  ! 
Good-day !  good-day !" 

And  he  slid  and  slipped  out  .thro ugh  the  door. 

If  ever  mortals  were  rejoiced  over  a  welcome  riddance, 
these  sisters  were  over  the  departure  of  their  most  un 
welcome  guest. 

"Now  I  hope  he'll  know  enough  to  understand  that 
he 's  not  wanted  here,"  said  Mary. 

"  He  won't,"  said  Martha. 

"  No,  that 's  what  he  won't,"  added  Arthur,  with  earn 
estness.  "I'll  venture  to  say  that  he'll  be  hanging 


HIGHLY    ENTERTAINING.  247 

around  me  within  a  week.  He 's  one  of  that  class  of 
acquaintance  that  you  can't  pull  off,  nor  shake  off.  He 's 
as»tenacious  as  a  very  leech ;  and  his  visits  are  quite  as 
exhausting  to  one.  But  let's  drop  that  subject,  I  think 
he  has  gone  through  his  share  already." 

Chatting  now  on  flowers  and  now  on  books,  the  girls 
proposed  to  walk  down  to  Mr.  Holliday's  little  box  some 
pleasant  morning,  and  see  his  garden  beds,  walks,  flowers, 
and  so  forth.  It  was  something  that  they  had  had  in 
contemplation  for  a  long  time,  and  now  for  the  first  time 
dared  to  mention. 

.  "The  flower  beds  !"  exclaimed  Arthur,  smiling.  "The 
garden  walks !  I  don't  know  what  you  '11  think  of  them, 
I  'm  sure.  They  are  just  to  ..keep  my  leisure  employed, 
and  to  give  me  a  little  exercise.  As  for  the  beauty  you  '11 
find  about  them,  I  think  it 's  nothing  but  simple  nature." 

"  And  that 's  always  beauty  enough,"  chimed  in  Mar 
tha. 

"  Yes,  I  like  nothing  as  well  as  nature.  Art  can  hardly 
expect  to  improve  upon  it  It  may  possibly  set  off  a  bit 
of  natural  beauty  to  a  little  better  advantage ;  but  that  is 
all  it  can  do." 

"  And  we  sha'n*t  be  satisfied  with  looking  at  your  gar 
den  only,"  said  Mary.  "  We  're  something  of  the  mind 
of  your  very  intimate  friend,  Mr.  Dandelly ;  we  shall 
want  to"  look  into  your  study,  and  see  where  you  do  your 
work." 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes !"  assented  Martha,  enthusiastically. 

"  You  certainly  shall  be  welcome,"  said  Arthur ;  "  but 
let  me  warn  you  not  to  put  your  expectation  too  high. 
I  've  got  nothing  but  a  little  crib  down  there  ;  a  plain 
room  with  two  small  windows,  and  a  table  and  chairs. 
You  '11  not  be  long  looking  over  my  books,  either  ;  I  can 
almost  count  them  to  you  now  on  my  fingers'  ends.  But 


248  HIGHLY    ENTERTAINING. 

if  you  come  you  may  depend  on  my  doing  what  I  can  to 
entertain  you." 

"  May  we  ?  may  we  ?"  eagerly  returned  Martha,  her 
eyes  sparkling.  "  Then  I  shall  ask  to  have  you  read 
us  some  of  your  manuscripts !" 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes  !"  added  her  sister.     "  By  all  means !" 

"  I  don't  know  about — " 

"Ah!  ah,  sir!  but  your  promise  now!  We  shall  in 
sist,  depend  upon  it !  You  promise  to  entertain  us  in  the 
best  way  you  can ;  and  we  propose  to  have  you  read 
some  of  your  own  productions  to  us,  as  being  the  best 
way  we  can  think  of.  Now  what  else  can  you  possibly 
do  but  keep  your  word?  We  '11  hold  you  to  it !  We  '11 
hold  you  to  it,  won't  we,  Mary  ?" 

They  persisted  stoutly ;  and  after  proper  protestation, 
and  entreaty  even,  he  was  obliged  to  yield.  And  they 
looked  forward  to  the  time  with  eagerness  when  they 
should  enjoy  the  agreeable  sight  of  an  author  reading  his 
manuscript  aloud,  in  his  own  little  study,  surrounded  with 
an  atmosphere  all  his  own. 

Perhaps  but  few  would  think  it  a  matter  of  such  pe 
culiar  interest,  however,  in  these  millennial  days  when  al 
most  every  other  reader  is  an  author  himself! 


0 
CHAPTER  XXV. 

COUSINS. 

IT  happened  to  be  just  about  this  very  time,  too,  that 
Henry  Dollar — the  son  and  idol  of  that  miserably  rich 
man,  Jacob  Dollar,  and  cousin  of  Duncan  Morrow,  as  has 
been  already  narrated — concluded  to  pay  another  of  his 
visits,  often  repeated  of  late,  to  Miss  Ellen  Worthington. 
Not  that  it  may,  as  a  necessary  consequence,  be  under 
stood  that  he  occupied  a  post  of  special  favor  or  regard, 
in  her  eyes ;  for  that  was  what  very  few  indeed  could 
really  expect  'to  do— 4ier  favorites  being  rare  and  care 
fully  chosen.  Yet  thus  far  he  had  been  allowed  to  call 
by  a  sort  of  sufferance  on  her  part.  One  of  her  friends 
had  introduced  him  into  the  house,  rather  yielding  to  the 
young  man's  importunities-  than  to  his  own  satisfied 
judgment,  and  in  this  manner  he  had  smuggled  himself 
into  what  he  boasted  of  as  being  an  intimate  acquaintance 
with  her. 

What  his  hopes  were,  he  had  carefully  kept  to  himself. 
If  he  was  possessed  of  any  thing  like  expectations  in  this 
direction,  no  one  knew  it.  Having  effected  what  he  had 
by  the  interposition  of  a  friend,  he  deemed  it  unnecessary 
that  he  should  further  expose  Iris  purposes  to  any  one. 

"  Henry,"  his  father  said  to  him  now  and  then,  for  he 
had  got  an  inkling  somehow  of  what  was  going  on, 
"  Henry,  I  hope  you  know  how  to  manage  these  matters 

11* 


250  COUSINS. 

skillfully.  You  need  n't  be  in  any  great  hurry ;  but  be 
very  careful,  mind  you,  to  keep  any  body  else  from  get 
ting  before  you  !  Be  on  the  look  out  for  that !" 

So  of  course  the  young  man  watched  sharp  and  nar 
rowly.  His  heart  w^|  not  specially  enlisted,  but  his  self 
ishness  was. 

Having  entered  on  his  plans,  whatever  they  might  be, 
nothing  was  so  deeply  and  thoroughly  aroused  as  his  am 
bition.  Conceited  to  a  pitch  that  is  not  fairly  describ- 
able,  he  counted  on  nothing  less  than  the  complete  reali 
zation  of  his  wishes.  Defeat,  nay,  even  delay,  was  a 
contingency  for  which  his  mind  made  no  provision.  He 
suffered  himself  to  look  at  but  a  single  side  of  the  subject, 
and  that  the  side  to  which  he  had  married  his  hope  and 
his  selfishness. 

Smartly  dressed,  therefore,  and  very  highly  perfumed, 
he  was  on  his  way,  in  the  evening,  to  Ellen's  house.  "  It 's 
not  too  late,  I  hope,"  said  he  to  himself,  as  he  reached  a 
corner  not  far  from  the  locality,  *and  took  out  his  gold 
watch.  The  light  from  the  gas-lamp  fell  on  the  dial,  and 
he  saw  the  hour. 

"  Nine  o'clock,  hey  ?  Later  than  I  thought !  How 
ever,  sha'  n't  stay  very  long !"  and  he  thrust  the  watch 
back  into  the  fob,  and  regarded  carefully  all  the  houses 
along  the  street  till  he  reached  the  one  he  was  about  to 
enter.  Arriving  at  the  foot  of  the  flight  of  stone  steps, 
he  descried  an  individual  at  that  moment  coming  leisurely 
down.  His  eyes  widened,  for  he  saw  that  the  stranger 
was  a  gentleman. 

"  Who  can  that  be,  now  ?"  went  through  his  mind,  quick 
as  lightning. 

He  waited  till  he  came  down  and  stood  in  the  blaze  of 
the  lamp ;  and  then,  shading  his  eyes  carefully  with  his 
hand,  he  gazed  exactly  into  the  other's  face.  The  latter 


COUSINS.  251 

stopped  likewise,  undoubtedly  incited  to  do  so  by  the 
perfect  coolness  of  him  who  was  scanning  him. 

"  Ah  !  yes !  I  see  now  !"  said  young  Dollar,  in  a  tone 
of  affected  contemptuousness. 

"Do  you?"  replied  the  other,  without  any  apparent  need 
of  affecting  the  contempt  he  so  thoroughly  felt.  "  One 
would  think  you  found  it  rather  a  difficult  matter  to  see." 

"  I  think  I  've  seen  you  before,  at  all  events,"  remarked 
Dollar.  "  It 's  not  so  very  difficult  to  recognize  you,  I 
can  tell  you.  You  've  been  calling  here  ?" 

"  Suppose  I  have  ?  What  follows  ?  Yes,  as  you  say, 
you  have  seen  me  before.  You  confess  that  yourself. 
I  'm  to  be  seen,  sir,  by  daylight,  very  often. 

"Morrow?     Duncan?     That's  your  name,* I  think?" 

"  Quite  at  your  service.  I  write  that  name,  with  the 
last  name  first,  however,  very  often  in  my  hats."  - 

"  Facetious,  eh  ?  Demme,  but  who  'd  have  thought 
it  ? — You  came  out  of  this  house,  I  believe  ?" 

"  Well,  what  of  that  ?  You  appeared  to  have  found  it 
out  before  I  reached  the  bottom  step.  Yes,  I  did  come 
out  of  there !  I  want  to  know  what  follows !" 

"  You  've  been  in  there  to  see  Miss  Worthington — Miss 
Ellen — a  very  particular  friend  of  mine?  You  have, 
have  n't  you  ?" 

"  Upon  my  word,  I  have  n't  fallen  in  with  so  ready  a 
guesser,  this  many  a  day  !  I  declare,  I  must  confess  you 
quite  surprise  me !" 

"  Do  I,  though  ?  Demme !  but  I  '11  do  that  thing  for 
you  yet  in  another  way  !  You  sha'  n't  call  this  the  last 
time !  It 's  nothing  to  what  shall  come !" 

"  Always  at  your  service,  I  suppose  you  understand," 
said  Duncan. 

"  Perhaps  you  sometimes  think  of  it,  that  you  have  the 
honor  of  being  a  cousin  of  mine  ?" 


252  COUSINS. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  returned  Duncan,  "  that  I  have  been 
made  aware  of  some  such  unpleasant  accident  of  birth. 
But  what  of  that  ?  I  hope  you  are  not  going  to  presume 
too  much  on  my  acquaintance,  just  in  consequence.  I 
could  n't  very  well  help  it,  you  know !  All  I  can  do  is  to 
make  the  best  of  it !" 

"Help  it!"  sneered  the  galled  dandy.  "Help  it! 
Demme  now !  If  I — no  ! — accident  of  birth ! — help  it ! 
Demnition  blast  these  country  upstarts,  that  try  to  creep 
into  better  men's  places !  They  ought  to  be  taught  their 
place  !"  and  he  turned  half  away,  in  the  tempest  of  his 
disgust. 

"  If  you  design  to  begin  any  educational  teachings  with 
upstarts,  Mr.  Dollai',"  returned  Duncan,  perfectly  cool 
and  self-possessed,"  may  I  not  be  allowed  to  suggest  that 
you  -inaugurate  the  process  with  yourself?  That  is 
ground  that  you  can  have  perfect  liberty  to  travel  over ; 
and  be  assured  besides,  no  one  will  molest  you  on  it ! 
Good-night,  sir !  I  really  must  not  delay^ny  longer." 

And  before  the  other  could  collect  his  scattered 
thoughts,  exploded  as  they  all  were  by  his  blast  of  pas 
sion,  Duncan  had  left  him  standing  there  quite  alone. 

Excited  more  than  he  thought  he  could  be,  by  an  inter 
view  that  had  such  an  unsatisfactory  termination  for  him, 
he  dashed  up  the  flight  of  steps,  and  violently  rung  the 
bell. 

It  so  happened  that  Ellen  herself  had  waited  on  Dun 
can  to  the  door,  and  held  it  a  little  ajar  as  he  went  down 
the  steps ;  and  when  she  unexpectedly  caught  the  sound 
of  his  voice  in  conversation  with  another  person,  she  very 
naturally  continued  to  hold  the  door  open  to  see  who  it 
was,  and  what  it  meant.  Perhaps  she  was  a  little  anxious. 
But  as  soon  as  she  made  the  discovery  that  the  second 
person  was  only  Mr.  Henry  Dollar — knowing  somewhat 


COUSINS.  253 

by  this  time  of  the  peculiar  relations  that  subsisted  be 
tween  the  two  cousins — she  continued  a  listener  to  the 
end.  And  just  as  she  saw  Duncan  turn  abruptly  away, 
she  softly  shut  the  door,  and  slipped  oif  into  the  sitting- 
room  with  a  flushed  fuse  and  a  beating  heart. 

A  moment  after  the  ringing  of  the  door-bell,  Mr.  Dol 
lar,  the  younger,  was  ushered  by  the  female  servant  into 
the  presence  of  Ellen,  and  accosted  her  with  what  grace 
and  self-possession  he  happened  to  be  master  of.  Ellen 
received  him  as  politely  as  she  could,  though  any  but 
he  would  have  been  chilled  through  with  her  indiffer 
ence.  It  was  not  haughtiness,  for  that  quality  did  not 
legitimately  belong  to  her  nature ;  it  was  nothing  but 
sheer  indifference.  She  feigned  nothing  at  all. 

It  naturally  took  the  young  man  some  time  to  compose 
himself,  after  his  late  excitement ;  and  he  talked — almost 
alone — of  the  weather,  the  last  opera,  and  himself. 

Ellen  regarded  him  with  a  searching  look  now  and 
then  ;  and  each  time  the  recollection  of  the  conversation 
just  had  on  the  walk  flashed  over  her  mind,  she  could 
not  keep  down  the  rising  feeling  of  absolute  disgust  that 
sought  to  control  her. 

"  I  little  thought  it  was  so  late,  Miss  Worthington," 
said  he.  "  It  was  my  intention  to  call  before ;  but  one 
thing  or  another  delayed  me.  The  evenings  at  this  time 
of  the  year  slip  away  so  rapidly !" 

"Undoubtedly  you  attended  to  what  you  considered 
the  most  important  matters  first,"  she  returned.  "  Some 
persons  always  make  it  a  point  to  do  so,  business  people 
especially !" 

"  Ah,  no,  Miss  "Worthington  !  No,  indeed  !  Do  not 
mistake  my  meaning,  I  beg  of  you." 

"  What  could  your  meaning  be,  then,  pray  ?     I  'm  sure 


254  COUSINS. 

you  seemed  to  express  youi§elf  very  plainly.  How  did 
you  mean,  sir  ?" 

Unaccustomed  to  group  his  mental  resources  together 
for  any  decided  and  energetic  effort,  he  plunged  into  an 
answer  to  her  question  entirely  at  random,  floundering 
along  through  in  the  best  way  he  could. 

"  Oh,  nothing  at  all,  Miss  Worthington  !  Nothing  more 
than  that  I  was  delayed — I  stopped  here  and  there  with 
a  friend — all  very  common,  you  know — nothing  at  all  out 
of  the  way  for  any  body  to  do,  even  when  they  are  going 
on  highly  important  business — certainly  nothing  disre 
spectful  to  you,  Miss — Miss — " 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  understand  you,"  interrupted  Ellen. 
"  I  was  sure  I  did  before." 

For  a  moment  he  felt  flat.  What  that  peculiar  state 
of  feeling  might  have  been  in  Mr.  Dollar's  breast,  perhaps 
could  not  be  so  well  asserted ;  but  readers  generally  will 
appreciate  an  expression  conveying  to  their  minds  a 
mixed-up  idea  of  a  sensation  composed  about  equally  of 
being  "  all-over-ish"  and  "  down." 

He  recovered,  however,  as  all  light  bodies  Avill  recover 
in  good  time,  and  began  upon  another  topic. 

"  Met  an  individual  just  now,"  said  he,  "  right  on  the 
walk  here.  Rather  startled  me." 

Waiting  for  Ellen  to  make  some  sign  of  interest  in  his 
narrative,  but  to  no  effect,  he  added  again — 

"  In  fact,  he  was  coming  right  down  your  own  steps  ! 
I  stopped,  and  he  stopped ;  and  we  looked  each  other 
straight  in  the  face.  I  'd  seen  him  before,  you  must 
know,  and  I  happen  to  be  pretty  well  informed  about 
him.  I  must  confess,  though,  I  was  a  good  deal  surprised 
to  see  him  coming  from  here  !  Had  he  called  on  you  ?" 

w  I  am  willing  to  answer  your  question,  Mr.  Dollar :  a 
gentleman  has  called  here  this  evening." 


COUSINS.  255 

"And  just  gone?"         ,4 

"  Only  a  few  moments  ;  yes." 

"  It  was  Mr.  Duncan  Morrow  ?"  he  still  pursued. 

Ellen  was  vexed  ;  yet  she  kept  her  feelings  under  con 
trol.  "  Yes,"  she  finally  answered  ;  "  it  was." 

"  You  are  acquainted  with  him,  then  ?" 

"  You  might  well  judge  so,  I  should  think,  from  his 
coming  here.  Yes,  I  am  acquainted  with  him ;  quite 
well  acquainted  with  him." 

"  Yes — yes,"  he  replied,  smoothly  and  deliberately.  "  I 
was  going  to  say  that  I  felt  pretty  well  acquainted  with 
him  myself!" 

"  So  I  should  think  you  ought  to  be,"  said  she.  "  It 
would  be  a  very  strange  thing  if  you  were  -not." 

"  Why  would  it  be  such  a  very  strange  thing,  Miss 
Worthington  ?  I  think  I  don't  exactly  understand  you, 
do  I?" 

"  You  are  cousins,  are  you  not  ?"  asked  she. 

His  face  colored.  "  How  should  you  know  that,  now  ?" 
said  he,  off  his  guard  a  little.  s  "  I  declare  !  Who  told 
you,  Miss  Worthington  ?" 

'•'  Suppose  I  choose  to  keep  all  such  matters  to  myself? 
what  then  ?" 

"  Oh,  well-;  oh,  nothing ! — nothing,  I  'm  sure  !  But  if 
he  is  my  cousin" — and  here  the  black  blood  began  to  do  its 
work  in  his  veins — "  even  if  he  is  my  cousin,  I  can't  say  that 
we  have  any  personal  acquaintance !  Thatj's  a  thing  I — " 

"  Yes ;  but  you  just  now  said  you  knew  him  thor 
oughly  !"  she  persisted. 

"  And  so  I  do  ;  but  it 's  not  by  personal  intimacy,  let 
me  tell  you  !  It 's  only  what  I  've  heard  of  him — through 
my  own  father,  for  instance  !" 

"  Ah !"  returned  she ;  "  then  there  is  probably  some 
good  reason  for  this  coolness  between  you  ?" 


256  COUSINS. 

"  Of  course  there  is !"  he  said,  eagerly.  "  You  must 
have  seen  that  in  a  moment,  for  yourself!  The  fact  is, 
Miss  Worthington  " — he  grew  confidential — "  I  know 
this  cousin  of  mine  so  well,  that  I — I — I  can't  allow  my 
self — a-h !  a-h  ! — really,  I  could  n't  think  of — of — hav 
ing — "  and  right  there  he  stuck  fast. 

Ellen,  however,  offered  no  remark.  She  was  sick  of  the 
spectacle  of  which  chance  had  made  her  an  unwilling  ob 
server. 

"  The  truth  is,  Miss  Worthington,"  continued  he,  leap 
ing  clear  out  of  the  tangle  of  his  former  sentence,  "I  don't 
myself  imagine  that  he  knows  who  he  calls  on  when  he 
comes  here  to  this  house  !  In  fact,  I  know  he  don't ;  and 
I  took  it  upon  niyself  to  tell  him  as  much,  as  I  met  him 
but  just  now  down  at  the  foot  of  the  steps!  Possibly 
you  don't  yet  know  much  of  him  yourself,  do  you  ?" 

"  Really,  Mr.  Dollar,"  she  answered,  with  increasing 
collectedness,  "I  must  say  that  you  are  uncommonly 
thoughtful  for  me ! — uncommonly  so  !  For  the  future, 
however,  let  me  beg  that  you  do  not  put  yourself  to  quite 
so  much  trouble  !  I  trust  you  won't,  sir  !" 

"  It 's  no  trouble,  Miss  Worthington,  to  do  what  one 
considers  nothing  but  his  duty  to  his  friends.  I  merely 
thought  I  would  warn  you  a  little,  you  know — put  you  on 
your  guard  somewhat  for  the  future.  Nothing  more  than 
this,  I  assure  you.  I  certainly  hope  you  '11  excuse  me  for 
what  I  've  done  ;  it 's  all  in  the  way  of  friendship,  you 
know.  I  see  plain  enoug~h  that  you  can't  know  who  and 
what  this  individual  is.  I  do  !  I  know  him  clear  through ! 
He  's  my  own  cousin,  you  see  !" 

"  Yes  ;  but  I  should  be  the  very  last  to  suspect  such  a 
relationship,"  returned  she,  satirically. 

"  Eh  ?"  said  he,  obtusely ;  "  should  n't  you  suspect  it, 
though?  shouldn't  you?  Well,  I  believe  in  my  heart 


COUSINS.  257 

that  nobody  else  would,  either !  But  I  'm  quite  at  liberty 
to  say  of  him — being  my  cousin — that  he  is  n't  fit  to  go 
into  ladies'  society  !  That 's  what  he  is  n't !" 

"  So  far  as  his  admission  into  this  house  is  concerned," 
replied  she,  "  I  trust,  Mr.  Dollar,  that  you  will  allow  me 
still  to  remain  my  own  judge." 

"  Oh,  certainly — certainly  !  I  did  n't  think  for  one 
moment  to  interfere  where  I  had  no  right  to ! — nothing 
of  that  kind,  let  me  assure  you !"  he  answered,  in  perfect 
confusion. 

"  I  am  myself  very  happy  to  say  of  Mr.  Morrow,"  con 
tinued  Ellen,  with  decisiveness,  "  that  whatever  you  may 
think  of  him,  I  regard  him  as  a  perfect  gentleman  !" 

"  Um !"  was  the  only  sign  of  life  he  gave  under  this. 

"Furthermore,"  went  on  the  now  thoroughly  indig 
nant  girl,  "  whoever  you  may  imagine  I  allow  to  call  on  me 
in  my  own  house,  I  am  hardly  in  the  habit  yet  of  receiving 
visits  of  this  character.  I  am  not  willing  to  be  made  a 
common  recipient  of  the  slanders  of  others,  whether 
cousins  or  not.  I  regard  it  as  no  flattery  at  all  to  my 
own  tastes,  whatever  it  may  argue  for  my  principles.  It 
is  but  a  very  poor  estimate  of  my  character  in  any  light. 
And  as  such  is  the  case,  Mr.  Dollar," — she  was  rising  to 
her  feet — "  I  shall  take  this  opportunity  both  to  bid  you 
good-evening  and  to  assure  you  that  further  calls  from 
you  will  not  be  at  all  agreeable  to  me." 

And  with  these  calm  but  emphatic  words,  majestically 
as  a  queen,  she  walked  out  of  the  room  and  disappeared. 

It  was  quite  a  minute  before  the  crushed  young  ad 
venturer  knew  where  or  what  he  was.  He  could  have" 
gladly  called  on  the  rocks  and  the  mountains  to  fall  on 
him — or  the  floor  to  open  beneath  his  feet  and  swallow 
him  up  out  of  sight.  He  saw  nothing — he  heard  noth 
ing — he  knew  nothing.  His  brain  swam ;  his  eyes  glared 


258  COUSINS. 

and  rolled  wildly  about  in  his  head.  He  sat  like  one  in 
the  mazes  of  a  deep  dream  that  had  suddenly  closed  all 
around  him — in  the  final  clutch  of  a  secret  power  from 
which  he  had  no  longer  any  hope  of  escape. 

The  words  of  his  father  recurred  to  him — never  to  al 
low  himself  to  be  supplanted  by  another ;  and  remember 
ing  what  was  done,  his  blood  boiled  within  him  furiously. 
When  he  came  quite  to  himself  again  he  saw  that  he  "was 
left  alone.  Rising  hastily  to  his  feet,  he  gnashed  his 
teeth  and  clenched  his  hands  in  a  fury  of  passion ;  and 
muttering  to  himself,  he  rushed  out  swiftly  through  the 
door. 

"  That  d-e-v-i-1 !"  exclaimed  he,  as  he  got  to  the  hall- 
door,  striking  his  two  hands  together.  "  I  '11  be  even 
with  him,  and  this  very  night !  He  can't  do  such  a  thing 
as  this  and  not  feel  my  revenge !  yes,  my  revenge ! 
That 's  the  word  !" 

On  reaching  the  pavement  his  resolution  seemed  to 
have  taken  perfect  shape.  He  hurried  along  at  an  almost 
frenzied  pace,  straight  to  a  rendezvous  where  he  ap 
peared  to  be  quite  well  acquainted ;  and  knocking  softly 
at  a  door  in  one  of  the  upper  rooms  of  a  mean  old  build 
ing,  his  heart  beating  violently  against"  his  breast,  he  was 
immediately  waited  on  by  an  individual  who,  from  the 
alacrity  of  his  movements,  must  have  comprehended  in  a 
moment  the  meaning  of  the  appeal. 

The  door  opened  just  enough  to  show  the  head  of 
Isaac  Crankey,  who  peered  into  his  visitor's  face  care 
fully,  and  then  with  a  whisper  welcomed  him  in. 
'  Isaac  Crankey  and  Henry  Dollar !  When  the  world 
beholds  the  fusion  of  two  such  natures  it  may  certainly 
count  on  something  being  about  to  happen  that  will  be 
worth  its  attention ! 


CHAPTEK   XXVI. 

i 

ALL     IN     CONFIDENCE. 

LESS  than  an  hour  afterward,  Henry  Dollar  having 
ended  the  strange  and  mysterious  interview,  Isaac  got  up 
from  his  chair,  walked  a  few  times  as  in  deep  thought 
across  the  floor  of  the  room,  and  finally  bent  down  over 
little  Gabriel  in  the  further  corn§r  to  see  if  he  still  Slept. 
Yes,  he  slept.  The  sight'  of  that  pale  young  face,  with 
the  expression  of  anxiety  and  internal  suffering  set  so 
deeply  upon  it,  should  surely  have  awakened  tenderer 
feelings  in  the  heart  of  him  who  was  so  rapidly  enfolding 
himself  in  the  meshes  of  crime.  But  he  felt  no  risings  of 
remorse — none  of  conscience — none  of  uneasiness  even. 
His  face  was  as  stony  as  his  heai't.  There  was  upon  it 
now  that  marble  look  of  desperate  resolution,  that  seemed 
already  to  have  petrified  his  entire  nature. 

Turning  away  from  the  sleeping  boy  he  lit  his  pipe,  and 
went  carefully  out  of  the  room.  In  the  darkness  he 
groped  his  way  along  the  entries  and  passages  till  he 
found  himself  at  the  door  of  his  intimate  and  confidant — 
the  outcast  Kate. 

"  Kate,  old  girl,  I  declare !"  said  he,  as  he  opened  sud 
denly  upon  her. 

"  Well,  Isaac,"  said  she,  pleasantly,  in  return,  looking 
up  at  him  as  he  entered  the  apartment. 

She  was  sitting  in  a  low  chair,  with  an  old  wooden 
chest  drawn  out  before  her  into  the  middle  of  the  floor ; 

i 


260  ALL    IN    CONFIDENCE. 

a  candle  burned  dimly  on  the  lid  of  the  same,  and  by  its 
uncertain  light  she  was  engaged  in  examining  the  equally 
uncertain  colors  of  her  little  store  of  faded  and  worn-out 
finery.  Perhaps  she  had  gone  through  this  process  a 
hundred  times  before,  yet  it  seemed  to  interest  her  just 
as  much,  on  each  occasion  of  its  repetition.  Now  she 
held  up  a  crushed  and  crumpled  hat  to  the  light,  turning 
it  over  and  over  and  round  and  round  in  the  course  of 
her  examination.  Now  it  was  a  bit  of  an  exceedingly 
broad  and  gaudy  ribbon  that  she  subjected  to  the  test  of 
her  examination,  whose  hues  had  so  retreated  into  the 
original  groundwork,  or  had  so  perplexingly  combined 
themselves  in  the  making-up  of  an  anomalous  color  that 
she  knew  nothing  wh^t  to  think  either  of  their  com 
plexion  or  their  value.  Again  she  flirted  a  scrap  of  a 
shawl — of  some  dazzling  silk — across  her  shoulders,  and 
arched  her  neck  with  a  pride  that  was  but  mere  mockery, 
to  see  for  herself  how  such  things  became  her  still.  Or 
she  spread  out  some  old  dresses,  once  flashy,  but  now 
faded,  over  her  lap,  and  wondered  if  they  would  not  yet 
make  a  show  for  her  somewhere  in  that  obscure  neigh 
borhood. 

And  sitting  there  all  alone  this  thoroughly  degraded 
being  sought  relief  from  her  sterner  thoughts  in  thus 
trifling  with  the  very  insignia  of  her  shame. 

The  entrance  of  Isaac,  however,  seemed  to  interrupt 
her  in  her  solitary  occupation  ;  for  immediately  on  his  ac 
costing  her  she  looked  up  at  him,  hurriedly  crowded  and 
jumbled  all  the  articles  together  in  both  hands,  and  with 
an  activity  that  might  truly  be  said  to  be  peculiar  to  her 
sex,  swept  them  in  a  moment  into  the  chest.  It  was 
done  almost  before  her  'companion  could  seat  himself. 

"  Luck  again,  Kate !"  said  he,  his  eyes  dilating  as  he 
looked  at  her. 


ALL    IN    CONFIDENCE.  261 

"  What  ?"  she  inquired,  with  manifest  interest  in  her 
countenance. 

"Ah — but  Kate!  I've  had  a  good  leader  lately! 
Yes,  an'  I  've  had  it  only  this  very  night !  Only  a  few 
minutes  ago !  ~  I  've  come  right  over  here  with  it,  you 
see  !" — and  he  let  his  eyes  go  on  sparkling  with'his  pleas 
ure,  while  he  drew  out  his  pipe  with  all  the  energy  of  a 
highly  excited  man. 

"  Now  tell  us  what  'tis,  Isaac !"  said  she,  pleadingly. 
"  Tell  us  all  about  it !" 

"  Well,  as  for  that,  I  did  n't  very  well  see  how  I  could 
help  it,  for  I  tell  you  a'most  every  thing ;  but  it 's  to  be 
done  only  on  one  condition ;  you  know  what  that  is  I 
guess !" 

"  What,  Isaac  ?" 

"  That  what  goes  into  your  ears  don't  get  out  at  your 
mouth  !  Do  you  understand?" 

She  turned  upon  him.  a  look  of  affected  contempt,  as  if 
she  could  not  help  pitying  him  for  his  want  of  faith  in 
her.  "  I — tell !"  sneered  she,  curling  her  lip.  "  You 
don't  know  me,  then  !  No — nor  you  never  did  !" 

"  But  I  don't  kno^  as  you  ever  was  guilty  o'  'peachin', 
Kate,"  he  returned,  flatteringly.  "  I  only  wanted  to  put 
you  on  your  guard !  You  promise,  do  ye  ?" 

"  Not  to  tell  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  that 's  all." 

She  held  up  her  right  hand  high  above  her  head,  as  if 
in  the  act  of  taking  a  solemn  oath.  The  formula  seemed 
to  be  perfectly  understood  by  her  companion,  who  merely 
nodded  his  head,  and  exclaimed  in  an  undertone — "  All 
right !" 

"  Now  then,  go  on,"  said  she,  crossing  her  arms  upon 
her  lap.  "  My  ears  are  both  open,  you  see." 

"  Very  well !     Here  it  is,  the  whole  on  't ;  I  v'e  had  a 


262  ALL    IN    CONFIDENCE. 

visit  jest  now  from  a  flash ;  a  youngster ;  a  reg'lar — wal, 
you  can  guess  what  else.  He  thinks  he  knows  a  thing  or 
two ;  but  I  can  tell  him  that  little  Billy  Bottles  there  'd 
tell  him  more  'n  one  day  than  he  '11  ever  learn  for  him 
self  in  a  fortnight !" 

"  He  's>raw,  eh  ?"  asked  Kate.  v 

"  Somethin'  so,  he  is  ;  but  not  very  overmuch,  though, 
all  told.  But  as  I  was  a-goin'  to  tell  ye,  he 's  come  for  a 
job  !  An'  he's  after  me  !  That 's  all  there  's  about  it." 

"  D'  ye  know  who  he  is,  Isaac  ?"  she  interrogated, 
dropping  her  voice  still  more. 

"  Know  him  ?  Yis,  an'  so  do  you,  Kate !  I  know 
him  well ;  and  something  consid'rable  about  his  goin's 
and  doin's." 

"  Who  is  he,  I  wonder  ?     Who  is  he,  Isaac  ?" 

"  Why,  it 's  nobody  but  old  Jacob  Dollar's  boy — that 
rich  old  wharf-rat,  that  don't  care  much  what  he  does, 
so  he  feathers  his  own  nest  nice  an'  warm  !  Old  Dollar, 
you  know,  Kate,  that  walks  sometimes  as  proud 's  a  bird 
of  a  good  deal  finer  feather!  All  money,  ye  see!  It'll 
run,  jest  like  water  !  Money  makes  things  right,  come 
what  will.  An'  money,  Kate,"  added  he,  in  a  whisper 
that  in  that  half-lighted  apartment  seemed  almost  sepul 
chral,  "  is  jest  what  Isaac  Crankey's  after  this  blessed 
minute!  He 's  been  without  it  long  enough!  It  must 
be  had,  you  see,  no  matter  who  pays  the  bills  !" 

"  That 's  all  well  enough,"  returned  the  woman  ;  "  I 
like  that ;  but  what  'n  the  world 's  the  boy  after  ?  So 
young,  you  know  !  And  his  father  so  well  off!  What  is 
there  in  this  world  to  trouble  such  a  one  as  him  ?  If 
't  was  such  a  case  as  mine,  now — " 

"Why,1'  said  Isaac,  drawing  a  little  nearer  to  her, 
"  I  'II  tell  ye  ;  you  must  understan'  that  fust  an'  last,  I  've 
helped  him  a  little,  this  very  same  youngster,  jest  as  I 


ALL    IN    CONFIDENCE.  263 

have  his  father  afore  him ;  and  now  all  he  wants  is  for 
me  to  try  hard  for  him  at  a  new  turn.  This  is  it,  Kate  ; 
an'  you  '11  keep  it  all  to  yourself,  I  know ;  he 's  got  an 
enemy,  and  that  enemy  happens  to  be  a  relation,  too. 
That 's  what  makes  the  matter  so  much  the  worse. 
Strangest  thing  in  the  world  to  me  how  much  stronger 
these  relations  hate  one  another  than  only  common  folks 
do !  There  ain't  no  accountin'  for  't,  that  ever  I  heerd 
on !  Seems  as  if  they  'd  a  good  sight  ruther  tear  one 
another's  hearts  out,  than  live  peaceably  and  quiet  to 
gether,  if  they  could 's  well 's  not !" 

"Has  his  relation  damaged  him  any?'.'  pursued  Kate, 
becoming  further  interested  in  the  story.  "  Is 't  a  man 
or  a  girl  ?" 

"  It  rs  nobody  but  his  own  cousin,  Kate — his  own  blood 
cousin !  That 's  what  he  told  me  himself!  And  he  hates 
him,  because  he's  right  in  his  Avay!  That's  nat'ral 
enough,  too,  for  all  't  I  see.  And  now  this  is  jest  the 
style  the  case  stands  in  ;  you  know  somethin'  about  law, 
Kate,  an'  this  is  the  law  look  of 't :  Dollar  versis  Morrow 
— Isaac  Crankey  counsel  for  the  plaintiff.  T'other  party 
don't  seem  to  have  none  ;  manages  his  case  for  himself, 
p'raps ;  but  we  can  tell  better  about  that,  by-'n-by." 

"  And  Kate  Trott,  lawyer's  clerk !"  she  screamed  out, 
with  a  silly  laugh  at  her  own  sickly  idea. 

"  Cert'n,  if  you  wish  !  CSrt'n  I  say  to  ye,  Kate  !"  said 
he,  relapsing  into  sudden  thoughtfulness,  and  dropping 
his  eyes  to  the  floor. 

"  What  does  he  want  done  for  himself,  Isaac  ?"  she 
pursued,  seeing  him  disposed  to  silence.  u  Can  I  be  of 
any  help  about  it  ?  I  never  flinch,  ye  know,  Isaac !" 

"  No,  you  can't,"  answered  he.  "I  wish  't  you  could, 
though.  No,  I  know  you  never  flinch,  Kate  ;  I  know  't 
you  allers  stan'  to  the  guns,  till  the  last  one's  fired! 


264  ALL    IK    CONFIDENCE. 

Give  me  you,  for  all  any  body  else  now !  I  seem  to  know 
jest  where  to  find  ye  !  But  I  '11  tell  ye  what  this  young 
chap  wants  to  have  done,"  he  added.  "  He  wants  to 
git  this  cousin  o'  his — Morrow  's  his  name,  you  understan' 
— -jest  put  one  side,  out  o'  the  way  a  little.  Nothing 
more  'n  that." 

"  Not — not.    You  don't  mean,  Isaac — " 

"  Wai,  I  mean  any  thing  a'most,  so  's  he  only  don't 
come  acros  t'  his  track  too  often !  That 's  what  I  mean." 

"  But,  Isaac,  you  would  n't — you: — Isaac — " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  would ;  I  'd  do  jest  as  I  agreed  to  do,  ex 
actly  !  If  I  ever  begun  to  do  a  thing,  I  'd  carry  her  clean 
out!" 

"  But  you  did  n't  agree  to — to — to — " 

"  Look  here,  now ;  jest  let  me  tell  ye  what  I  did  agree 
to,  and  then  p'raps  you  '11  understan'  me  better." 

She  became  a  breathless  listener. 

"  I  told  him — this  young  Dollar — that  if  he  'd  fetch  me 
his  own  name — Dollar,  you  see — in  silver  an' gold,  jest  as 
many  times  over  as  I  was  a  mind  to  mark  down  for  him 
on  a  piece  o'  paper,  I  'd  stan'  ready  afterward  to  serve 
him  any  Avay,  and  of  coui'se  the  best  way  I  could !  That's 
jest  the  way  't  was,  an'  no  other.  He  didn't  seem  to 
wait  very  long  to  give  me  an  answer,  though  ;  his  young 
blood  was  up.  I  'd  got  eyes  to  see  that  plain  enough  ; 
and  he  out  pocket-book,  an'  chinked  'down  the  very 
dovers  I  wanted  right  into  my  palm — so  !  an'  here  they 
air,  Kate,  a-rattlin'  together  in  my  pocket  now !  Don't 
they  jingle  like  pleasant  music  though  ?  You  don't  know 
how  warm  an'  nice  they  felt  to  my  hand !  Worthy  as  he 
is,  Isaac  Crankey  hain't  handled  as  much  money 's  that, 
all  in  one  heap — wal,  it 's  been  a  good  many,  many  weeks, 
T  can  tell  you !" 

"  Then  you  agreed  ?"  she  added,  very  thoughtfully,  for 


ALL    IN    CONFIDENCE.  265 

one  who  seemed  to  trifle  with  every  thing  in  life,  as  she 
did. 

"  By  George  !  but  hain't  I,  though  ?  Hear  that  money 
jingle  agin !  That  tells  the  story !  That 's  your  answer !" 

The  woman  slowly  shook  her  head. 

"  Mind  now,  Kate,"  said  he,  "  I  don't  mean  to  do  one 
bit  more  'n  I  've  fairly  contracted  to  ;  no,  nor  one  whit 
less,  either.  If  I  make  out -with  my  job  as  well  as  he 
wants  me  to,  he  's  a-goin'  to  come  down  handsum,  so  he 
says ;  an'  '11  do  the  right  thing  by  me.  See  'f  he  don't !" 

A  second  time  she  shook  her  head. 

"  What 's  that  for  notv  ?"  he  asked,  eagerly. 

"  Prap's  he  may  do  the  right  thing  by  you  ;  but — " 

"  Yes,  an'  he  will !  I  'm  not  the  one  that 's  at  all 
afeerd  o'  that !  He  will  do  it !" 

"  But  you  look  out,"  pursued  she,  "  that  you  don't  do 
the  wrong  thing  by  him  !" 

"  By  him  ?  No,  indeed,  Kate  !  It  '11  be  by  somebody 
else,  I  reck'n,  that  that  '11  be  done !" 

"  I  'm  afraid  so." 

"  What !"  he  exclaimed,  starting  suddenly.  "  'T  aint 
possible  that  you  've  turned !  Aint  a-changin'  your  tune, 
are  you  ?  Kate,  I  don't  understand  ye  !  I  don't  know 
what  ye  mean !" 

"  I  wouldn't  go  about  this  work,"  answered  she.  "  I 
would  n't.  There  never  '11  any  good  come  of 't." 

"  What !  what  !  WHAT  !"  cried  he,  three  several  times, 
and  each  time  more  emphatically  than  before. 

"  I  'd  let  this  business  go,  I  say,  Isaac,"  she  persisted. 
"  I  begin  to  be  afraid  of 't." 

Nothing  could  well  exceed  his  great  surprise  at  hear 
ing  these  few  words  from  her  lips.  This  was  the  very 
last  place  in  the  world  where  he  expected  to  have  cold 
water  thrown  over  his  project.  It  immediately  repented 

12 


266  ALL    IN    CONFIDENCE. 

him  that  he  had  been  so  confidingly  foolish  as  to  mention 
the  matter  at  all  to  her. 

"  P'raps  you  don't  see  fur  enough  ahead,  Isaac  !"  said 
she.  "  I  say  to  ye  agin,  I  would  n't  do  this  thing ;  I 
would  n't." 

"  I  will !"  he  pronounced,  quite  as  energetically.  "  I 
tell  you  now,  once  for  all,  I  will !" 

"  No,  I  know  you  won't  stop  for  nothin'  now.  You  '11 
go  on  till  you  '11  find  you  can't  go  no  further.  And  then 
what  ?  Who  '11  ontie  your  hands  then  for  ye  ?" 

He  dropped  his  voice,  and  assumed  a  highly  melo-dra- 
matic  style : 

"  The  walls  have  got  ears,  girl !  If  they  had  n't,  I 
could  tell  you  that  about  this  very  same  business  that  'd 
make  your  hair  stan'  upon  end !  and  about  other  business 
too,  that  you've  had  ^ome  o'  the  profits  of  a'ready.  How 
do  you  know  what  I've  been  concernin'  myself  about 
this  long,  long  time  that 's  gone  by  ?  How  '11  any  body 
ever  know  ?  No,  no,  girl ;  let  me  tell  you  that  I  keep 
my  own  secrets  after  this  !  I  tell  you  nothing  more,  I 
promise  ye !" 

As  he  delivered  himself  of  these  words,  his  lank  body 
was  bent  far  forward,  his  right  arm  extended,  his  fore 
finger  pointed  threateningly  into  the  woman's  face,  and 
his  dark  eyes  seemed  to  retreat  further  within  his  head, 
where  they  glowed  as  fiercely  as  fires  blaze  in  gloomy 
caverns. 

"  You  never  need  be  afeerd  o'  me,  Isaac,"  said  she, 
soothingly.  "  Your  secret's  safe  here,  I  can  tell  ye!" 

"  Do  you  think,"  returned  he,  with  such  slow  and  de 
liberate  accentuation  of  the  syllables  of  each  word  as 
made  him  look  the  native  fiend,  "  do  you  think  that  if  I 
believed  you  was  agoin'  to  let  out  my  secret,  you  'd  ever 
go  out  o'  that  door  alive  ag'in  ? — No  !" 


ALL    IN    CONFIDENCE.  267 

She  fairly  trembled  beneath  the  strong  influence  of  his 
words.  Yet  she  had  the  courage  to  say  what  still  re 
mained  on  her  tongue  to  say. 

"  I  would  n't  touch  that  money,  Isaac.  I  believe  there 's 
blood  on  it !" 

He  only  looked  steadily  in  her  face,  making  no  reply. 

"  I  'd  jest  go  an'  carry  it  back,"  she  added  ;  "  and  I  'd 
wash  my  hands  afterward  too  !" 

"  Carry  it  back !"  sneered  he,  getting  upon  his  feet 
again.  "  I  guess  you  '11  find  Isaac  Crankey  never  does  a 
raw  thing  like  that,  now !  If  I  did  n't  take  it,  why,  Filly- 
mug  would ;  and  where 's  the  difPrence,  I  ask  you  ? 
Carry 't  back !  I  ruther  guess  I  shall !" 

With  this  decisive  expression  of  his  feelings,  he  went 
out  through  the  door  as  quick,  if  not  a  great  deal  quicker, 
than  he  came  in. 

After  he  was  gone,  Kate  sat  alone  and  thought  the 
matter  over  a  long  time ;  but  still  she  felt  that  she  could 
find  no  good  reason  for  changing  her  opinion  upon  it. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

AN   AUTHOR   AT   HOME. 

NEVER  was  there  known  a  lovelier  summer  morning 
than  that  on  which  Mary  and  Martha  Rivers  shut  the 
little  gate  of  Mr.  Holliday's  yard  upon  themselves,  and 
slowly  strolled  up  the  limited  walk  to  his  miniature  porch. 
The  door  stood  open,  displaying  a  little  seven-by-nine 
rustic  hall,  whose  floor  was  srjread  with  clean  white  mat 
ting,  and  against  whose  white  washed  wall  rested  a  lounge, 
covered  tidily  with  a  pretty  chintz.  Around  the  two 
square  posts  that  held  up  the  porch,  wound  the  runners 
and  luxuriant  shoots  of  a  couple  of  white  honeysuckles, 
whose  blossoms,  snowing  the  masses  of  foliage  from  top 
to  bottom,  breathed  a,  fragrance  about  the  place  that  gave 
it  almost  the  air  of  a  paradise.  The  sisters  had  hardly  time 
to  exclaim  in  low  voices  respecting  the  many  charms  that 
delighted  their  eyes,  when  Mr.  Ilolliday  himself  came 
hurriedly  forward  to  meet  them  ;  welcoming  them  to  his 
nest — as  he  called  it — with  much  cordiality. 

First  he  led  them  into  the  little  parlor  on  the  ground 
floor,  opening  the  windows  and  letting  in  the  sweet  airs 
of  the  morning.  They  sat  down  and  looked  out  over  the 
yard,  admiring  every  thing.  The  room  was  small,  and 
very  plainly  furnished ;  yet  an  air  of  refined  taste  was 
visible  in  both  the  selection  and  arrangement  of  the  fur- 
niture,  that  betrayed  in  a  moment  the  inner  and  truer  in- 


AN    AUTHOR    AT    HOME.  269 

stincts  of  the  occupant.  Two  pictures,  rustio  su-bjects, 
adorned  the  low  walls — one  a  summer  and  the  other  a 
winter  piece.  Over  the  shelf  was  a  colored  representa 
tion  of  a  platter  of  beautiful  speckled  trout ;  and  on  the 
mantel  itself  stood  a  basket  of  counterfeit  fruit  in  wax, 
with  real  flowers  strewn  tastefully  over  them.  A  table 
was  drawn  into  the  middle  of  the  floor,  on  which  were 
spread  new  books,  a  portfolio  of  engravings,  and  a  hand 
ful  of  hasty  sketches  of  his  own.  And  all  this  true  refine 
ment  in  an  old  wooden  hou.se  in  the  country,  a  story  and 
a  half  high,  of  a  dark  brown  color,  and  squatted  just  under 
the  back  of  a  hill ! 

After  satisfying  themselves  there,  Martha  proposed  to 
him  to  go  into  his  study  ;  and  Mary  echoed  the  call  with 
earnestness.  So  up  stairs  be  took  them,  and  ushered 
them  into  his  diminutive  chamber,  where  he  said  he  kept 
his  handful  of  books,  and  performed  all  his  labor. 

A  snugger  place  it  was  hardly  possible  to  conceive. 
The  girls  first  expressed  surprise,  and  then  delight ;  yet 
there  was  nothing  like  a  wealth  of  books  in  it,  nor  a  super 
abundance  of  furniture.  A  straw  carpet  covered  the 
floor,  and  a  square  deal  table  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
room.  On  this  were  lying,  in  indiscriminate  confusion, 
books,  manuscripts,  pens,  inkstand,  and  papers.  Only  a 
few  volumes  had  marshaled  themselves  on  his  many 
shelves  as  yet,  but  his  library  was  growing  quite  as  fast 
as  he  grew  himself,  and  no  faster. 

"  Now  we  're  going  to  have  you  read  us  what  you 
promised !"  called  Mary,  eager  -to  enjoy  all  she  could 
command.  "We've  walked  down  this  morning  almost 
on  purpose !" 

Arthur  half  protested.  He  was  modest.  He  did  not 
like  thus  to  parade  himself  before  others.  But  all  that 
was  no  matter.  He  offered  to  give  them  whatever  they 


270  AN    AUTHOR    AT    HOME. 

called  for,  to  take  home  and  read  by  themselves ;  but 
even  that  would  not  do.  They  wanted  to  hear  him  read 
his  own  productions  himself.  And  Mary  threw  her  bon 
net  off  her  shoulders,  and  said  she  should  certainly  sit 
there  till  he  complied  with  their  wish. 

Driven  to  an  extremity  like  that,  he  went  fumbling  a 
little  nervously  among  the  heaped  papers  on  his  table, 
and  finally  drew  out  a  handful  of  leaves  from  a  manuscript 
that  looked  as  if  it  had  seen  but  a  brief  existence.  Ex 
cusing  himself  the  best  way  he  could,  and  looking  up  to 
find  nothing  but  the  most  fixed  resolution  in  their  eyes, 
he  braced  himself  back,  and  nervously  began  : 

"NEW  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

"  I  never  could  tell  exactly  how  it  was  that  I  -had  fallen 
into  such  a  habit  of  dreaming,  but  perhaps  that  is  no 
matter.  At  all  events,  there  I  was  ;  and  there  I  had  been 
for  at  least  a  couple  of  hours,  settled  comfortably  in  my 
deep  arm-chair,  feet  high-perched  on  the  jamb,  and  eyes 
buried  in  the  dying  and  deadening  fire-coals. 

"The  afternoon  sun — it  was  in  winter — touched  up 
with  a  dim  brilliancy  the  faded  colors  in  the  carpet,  and 
died  in  the  somber  half-shadows  that  were  retreating  to 
the  corners  and  angles  of  the  room.  Not  so  much  as  a 
lazy  mote  was  sailing  up  and  down  the  yellow  pencils  of 
light.  The  old  house  was  still ;  yet  the  stillness  was  no 
wise  oppressive.  The  huddled  and  shivering  poultry 
might  have  been  seen  dressing  a  little  their  roughened 
plumage  in  the  strips  of  sun  beneath  the  fence,  as  they 
sometimes  do  on  these  wintery  afternoons;  and  the  chimes 
of  far-off  snow  bells,  ringing  down  the  lonely  road, 
mingled  somehow  strangely  in  with  the  flowing  current  of 
my  feelings. 

"  All  that  time  I  had  been  thinking  about  Love  and 


AN    AUTHOR    AT    HOME.  271 

Marriage ;  and  of  those  other  supplementary  topics  that 
make  a  sort  of  fringe-work  for  these  two.  It  was  so  easy 
— settled  in  just  such  a  bachelor's  chair,  before  just  such 
a  genial  fire — it  was  so  easy,  I  say,  to  convince  Judg 
ment  that  the  Bachelor's  life  was  the  only  true  and  com 
plete  life — no  burdens  on  his  back  but  his  own  ;  not  a 
thought  in  the  whole  circle  of  his  thoughts  that  did  not 
come  back  to  his  own  heart  as  its  center ;  no  anxieties 
without,  so  that  his  single  conscience  was  satisfied  within  ; 
no  fears,  no  cares,  no  sorrows,  no  mourning ! 

."  It  all  seemed  so  plausible  to  the  heart  that  a  bachelor's 
was  a  quiet  and  a  contented  lot ;  that  his  apartments  were 
never  any  thing  but  a  snuggery ;  that  his  life  was  only 
a  succession  of  rapid  stages  of  benevolence ;  his  hopes 
single,  undivided,  and  rarely  overthrown ;  his  happi 
ness  little  less  than  a  perpetual  fruitage  of  his  growing 
desires. 

"  There  was  a  nameless  something  about  the  condition 
of  such  a  being  that  instinctively  recommended  itself  to 
the  sympathies ;  a  breath  of  fragrance,  exhaling  from 
nothing  but  the  name — bachelor  !  It  took  for  granted — 
independence,  freedom,  comfort.  It  presumed  absence 
of  restraint,  of  every  nature.  It  pictured  a  quiet,  cosy 
present,  and  mapped  out  a  calm  and  careless  future. 

"  Only  the  unmarried  man — and  at  this  point  I  believe  I 
settled  myself  far  back  in  my  chair — only  the  bachelor 
can  tell  you  at  all  what  life  is,  or  how  it  goes.  He  is 
both  of  it,  and  in  it ;  yet  he  is  nowise  so  deeply  interested 
as  a  participator,  that  he  is  worthless  as  an  annotator. 
He  '  goes  in,'  but  never  with  rolled-up  sleeves.  He  en 
joys,  and  up  to  his  very  eyes ;  but  never  above  them. 
With  a  good  share  of  its  labor  lying  ready  for  his  hand, 
he  seems  rather  to  woi'k  like  an  amateur  than  as  a  slave ! 

"He  takes  quite  as  much  comfort  in  seeing  others  drudge 


272  AN    AUTHOB    AT    HOME. 

and  do  as  in  drudging  and  doing  himself.  Rat  her  than 
companions,  others  are  chiefly  the  sources  of  his  amuse 
ment.  He  would  be  lost  with  himself  if  others  were  like 
him  ;  for  then  all  the  fountains  of  his  enjoyment  Avould  be 
dried  up.  He  lives  more  a  seer  than  a  doer  ;  filling  his 
eyes  with  sights,  his  brain  with  reflections,  and  his  heart 
with  solid,  quiet,  enduring  happiness. 

"And  while  I  lazily  brushed  away  a  spark  that  the  chest 
nut  stick  had  seen  fit  to  snap  out  upon  my  bosom — as  if 
it  would  discover  whether  there  were  a  heart  of  tinder 
writhin — I  began  to  draw  rapid  outline  sketches  of  the 
bachelor'^  home-life,  filling  them  in  with  such  truths  as 
my  after  reflections  furnished,  and  clothing  and  coloring 
all  with  the  glowing  ruddiness  of  my  now  well-warmed 
feelings. 

"To  be  the  whole  of  your  family — head  and  all !  To 
come  home  from  a  distracting  day  of  business,  and  quietly 
sip  your  tea,  and  afterward,  in  slippered  feet,  doze  pleas 
antly  over  your  fragrant  Havana !  To  stir  your  own  fire, 
just  as  often  as  you  choose,  without  the  fear  of  burning 
baby,  who,  perhaps,  sits  crouched  at  your  feet,  spitting  on 
the  delicate  embroidery  of  your  slippers  !  To  read  your 
favorite  old  authors  undisturbed,  without  a  fierce  and 
sudden  cry  from  infantile  lungs,  to  make  turbid  the  wind 
ing  streams  of  your  thought !  To  scribble  verses  to  as 
many  sweethearts  as  you  may  have,  with  no  fear  from  quick 
and  bright  eyes  over  your  shoulder !  To  sit  up  as  late  as 
you  will,  enjoying  nothing  but  your  own  society,  or  that 
of  some  other  thoughtless  one,  full  as  happy  as  yourself! 
To  rise  Vhen  you  feel  inclined  in  the  morning,  and  even 
to  deny  yourself  breakfast  altogether  if  so  you  like  it ! 
To  be  yourself — wholly  yourself — and  nothing  but  your 
self!  To  take  time  to  look  about  you,  as  you  get  on  in 
the  world  ;  to  be  inestimably  comfortable  at  all  times,  be- 


AN    AUTHOR    AT    HOME.  273 

cause  none  of  the  little  prickly  cares  of  a  man  of  family 
beset  the  smooth  path  you  have  chosen ! 

"  The  choice  words  of  wise  old  Burton  come  pat  to  your 
mind  at  times,  and  you  repeat  them  aloud  with  an  exult 
ing  fillip  of  your  fingers — '  Consider  withal  how  free,  how 
happy,  how  secure,  how  heavenly,  in  respect,  a  single 
man  is  ;  consider  how  contentedly,  quietly,  neatly,  plenti 
fully,  swef tly,  and  how  merrily  he  lives !  He  hath  no 
man  to  care  for  but  himself,  none  to  please,  no  charge, 
none  to  control  him,  is  tied  to  no  residence,  no  cure  to 
serve,  may  go  and  come,  when,  whither,  live  where  he 
will,  his  own  master,  and  do  what  he  list  himself!' 

"  You  are  young  yet  ? — Well,  well ;  and  so  there  is  all 
the  more  of  this  rich  harvest  of  happiness  for  you  to 
gather  into  your  heart's  granary.  Young  ? — Then  why 
a  wife  ?  Who  better  able  to  supply  all  the  little  wants 
of  his  condition  than  a  young  man  ?  With  the  youth 
you  have,  you  hold  health  also,  and  active  vigor,  and  im 
pulsive  and  bounding  spirits.  What  more,  in  this  world, 
would  you  have  ? 

"  Is  it  so  necessary  that  a  man  with  glowing  impulse  and 
heated  ambition  should  slip  his  neck  in  a  yoke,  and  bow 
meekly  beneath  its  galling  weight,  when  he  might  be 
holding  his  head  loftily  in  the  air,  and  snuffing  only  such 
breezes  as  blow  from  the  high  lands  of  his  hopes  ?  Should 
aspiration  needlessly  put  a  bit  in  its  own  mouth,  and 
strong  reins  in  the  hands  of  its  more  timid  master? 
Ought  pleasure  to  give  up  its  fair  claims — at  the  very 
start,  too — without  becoming  so  much  as  a  modest  and 
moderate  contestant  ?  Should  freedom  surrender  all  its 
most  precious  prerogatives,  without  a  single  murmur  of 
complaint,  and  seem  glad  of  the  privilege  besides  ? 

"But  young  and  poor? — Heaven  help  you,  then! 
What  a  curse  were  poverty  now,  with  another  and  a  tender 
12* 


274  AN    AUTHOK    AT    HOME. 

heart  aching  with  the  want  you  can  not  supply !  What  a 
coil  does  this  monstrous  serpent  twine  about  your  happi 
ness,  till  it  strangles  the  life  out  of  it  altogether  !  How  you 
shudder  as  you  come  home  at  night,  knowing  full  well 
that  the  oil  and  the  meal  are  low,  and  the  gaunt  and  fam 
ished  wolf  is  at  the  door !  How  all  your  energies  deaden, 
and  how  your  ambition,  just  now  blazing  up  so  brightly, 
entirely  goes  out !  How  can  you  bear  to  see  the  tears 
trickling  in  silence  down  that  pale  face  !  How  will  your 
heart  bear  up  against  the  daily  denials — the  repeated 
short-comings — the  constant  excuses  and  evasions — while 
it  feels  that  it  alone  is  responsible  for  all  this  woe  ! 

"  No — no  !  A  thousand  times — No !  You  Avill  enter 
upon  no  such  hazardous  experiment  as  this.  You  will 
consent  to  contract  no  alliances  for  your  heart,  where  the 
risk  may  come  at  last  to  make  that  heart  bleed  as  it  never 
bled  before.  Better,  if  poor — alone.  There  is  none  but 
yourself  to  suffer,  then.  A  single  mouth  is  all  there  is 
waiting  to  be  fed.  Only  one  body  to  be  clothed.  Only 
one  set  of  wants  to  be  supplied.  If  grief  comes  you  can 
easily  meet  it  alone  ;  to  see  another  plunged  in  it  would 
but  dishearten  and  distract  you.  If  troubles  multiply,  the 
same  heart  that  dared  and  defied  them  is  able  of  itself  to 
abide  the  peltings  of  its  pitiless  storm.  But  to  drag  down 
another  into  the  depths  of  your  own  suffering — you  cau 
not ;  you  will  not. 

"  Or  if  you  are  well  along  in  years  ?  Quite  over  the 
dividing  ridge  of  human  life  ? — Well,  and  still  your  lot  is 
rich  in  comfort,  rich  in  ease,  and  quiet,  and  content,  and 
all  manner  of  blessings.  The  very  juices  of  your  enjoy.r 
ment  streak  your  ruddy  cheeks.  The  pleasures  of  your 
free-and-easy  mode  of  life  leave  their  glow  in  your  bright, 
full  eyes.  Hitherto  your  existence  has  been  free  from  in- 
cumbrance  and  inconvenience ;  you  resolve  that  it  shall 


AN    AUTHOR    AT    HOME.  275 

always  be  so  hereafter.  Your  heart  shall  remain  at  rest, 
even  as  your  tired  feet  lounge  in  their  loose  slippers  at 
evening. 

"  Look  into  the  fire,  then,  and  dream  just  as  long  as  you 
will.  No  voice  is  near,  to  waken  the  echoes  that  have 
slept  so  long  in  your  chamber,  or  to  break  the  flow  of 
sweet  feeling  that  sets  in  such  a  placid  current  out  from 
your  heart.  Press  back  your  head  into  the  cushion  of 
your  chair  as  deeply  as  you  can ;  no  noisy  prattle  shall 
threaten  to  drive  away  your  coveted  drowsiness.  Throw 
up  your  heels  as  high  on  the  jamb  as  you  will ;  there  shall 
come  no  complaint  from  your  seeming  misdemeanor — no 
sudden  call  to  start  you,  like  an  impulse,  to  your  feet  again. 

"  It  is  an  easy  life ;  a  reasonable  life ;  a  life  of  passive 
pleasure — of  abiding  and  independent  comfort.  You 
love  children,  perhaps?  Your  old  classmate  has  them 
in  plenty.  Caress  them  as  much  as  you  will.  Play  with 
them  till  they  tumble  your  spotless  shirt-bosoms,  and 
crumple  remorselessly  your  immaculate  cravats.  Toss 
them  to  the  ceiling  till  they  are  giddy  if  you  like  the 
fun  ;  or  blow  into  their  dimpling  necks  till  they  are  ready 
to  go  off  into  fits  for  laughter.  Why  would  you  have 
such  burdens  on  your  hands  continually,  to  repay  you 
with  but  a  half  hour's  boisterous  romping  ? 

"  You  court  female  society  ;  it  is  so  refining — so  exalt 
ing — so  ennobling.  What  then  would  you  do  better 
than  mingle  in  it  whenever  the  taste  inclines  you  ?  You 
are  not  tied  down,  hand  and  foot,  in  your  choice,  by  a 
band  as  strong  as  that  of  necessity.  You  are  free  to  go 
where  you  will ;  you  are  at  home  any  where — every 
where ;  equally  acceptable  in  all  places ;  welcome  alike  at 
the  parties,  the  routs,  and  the  re-unions ;  and  still — still  a 
bachelor. 

"  Yes — a  bachelor ! — a  happy,  happy  man  !     A  being 


276  AN    AUTHOB    AT    HOME. 

whose  wants  need  never  outrun  his  means ;  an  existence 
basing  your  enjoyment  on  your  real  right  to  enjoy ;  a 
perfect  creature,  because  neither  more  nor  less  than  an* 
unit ;  complete  in  yourself,  as  in  your  aims,  your  hopes, 
and  your  happiness  likewise ;  a  beatitude — living,  moving, 
and  breathing ;  with  a  shelter  for  yourself,  but  none  for 
perplexities  or  cares ;  an  altar  for  your  own  heart,  but 
not^so  large  that  you  desire  to  share  it  with  others ;  a 
breast  uncankered  with  envy,  and  free  from  the  capricious 
tempests  of  social  feuds  and  family  jars. 

"  Oh  blissful,  blissful  life !     Oh,  blessed,  blessed  man  ! 

"  I  think  I  must  unconsciously  have  taken  a  hitch  in  my 
chair — or  a  brand  may  have  broken  suddenly  in  two, 
scattering  the  white  ashes  over  the  little  hearth — or  a 
parasite  blue-bottle  may  have  lit  on  my  nose,  demanding 
a  spiteful  brush  from  my  hand.  It  is  difficult  now  to  re 
call  what  it  was.  '-Yet  in  some  strange  way  a  change 
scud  over  my  spirit,  and  over  the  spirit  of  my  dream, 
too.  The  current  of  my  thoughts  wore  a  new  channel, 
and  quite  on  the  other  side.  And  so  I  kept  on  sailing, 
little  caring  where  it  floated  me,  minding  neither  prow 
nor  helm. 

"And  I  swung  lazily  under  the  shadows  of  the  tangled 
boughs  on  the  opposite  bank,  and  grew  suddenly  re 
freshed  with  the  fragrance  of  new  flowers,  and  felt  the 
flush  of  a  new  sense  steal  over  my  heart,  like  soft  sun 
shine  nestling  in  a  covert  of  dark  leaves. 

"  I  seemed  all  at  once  to  see  with  other  eyes.  I  breathed 
with  new  lungs.  Strange  sounds  ravished  rny  ears.  I  fed 
on  melodies  sweeter  and  more  lulling  than  those  of  flutes, 
where  but  just  now  I  heard  not  even  the  ripple  of  a 
pleasant  echo.  Beautiful  vistas  opened  before  me,  where 
but  lately  my  eyes  shrank  from  the  deep  gloom.  Little 


AN    AUTHOR    AT    HOME.  277 

cottages  smiled  through  the  green  network  I  had  im 
agined  only  a  wilderness,  peopling  the  picture  till  its  life 
and  reality  were  irresistible. 

"  Yes — with  the  tide  I  had  drifted  down  into  the  still 
haven  of  quite  another  dream ! 

"  There  is  her  chair  now,  over  against  your  own.  Her 
dark  eyes — you  are  looking  into  them  all  the  time.  The 
smiles  that  break  out  over  her  face — they  light  the  whole 
of  the  dismal  hearth  of  your  heart. 

"It  is  not  a  picture.  It  is  not  a  toy  to  amuse  and 
delight  you.  It  is  no  myth  that  has  danced  into 
your  bachelor  apartments  and  sat  down  uninvited  by 
your  fire.  It  is  a  living  creature — an  impersonation  of 
beauty ;  every  whit  a  charming  ideal — yet  every  whit  a 
charming  reality,  too. 

"  Feast  your  hungry  eyes  on  her  bright  eyes.  Let  your 
heart  run  riot  while  you  contemplate  those  waving  ringlets, 
that  dimpled  mouth,  those  ripe  red  lips,  and  that  graceful 
figure.  Lay  envy  to  sleep  as  your  feelings  flutter  at  such 
a  vision ;  and  think  no  more  of  solitary  quiet,  and  single 
comfort,1  and  selfish  content. 

"  She  stirs  the  fire — and  the  honest  blaze  shines  out  like 
the  sun  in  your  face.  She  glides  around  the  room,  per 
haps  stopping  now  and  then  to  run  over  the  scrawls  that 
are  spread  on  your  table — while  only  a  quiet  smile,  with 
not  a  bit  of  sarcasm,  betrays  the  fun  she  is  extracting 
from  your  folly  ;  and  can  you  once  think  so  gentle  a  crea 
ture  as  that  in  your  way  ?  She  smooths  out  the  table- 
spread  ;  and  adjusts  the  folds  of  the  window  curtain  ;  and 
gathers  up  a  book  or  two  that  have  strayed  to  the  floor  ; 
and  says,  in  a  low  voice — '  There !  I  think  that  looks  all 
the  better !' — and  are  you  Turk  enough  to  think  such  a 
being  a  '  nuisance  ?'  or  to  wish  for  a  moment  that  she 
was  quit  of  your  premises?  or  to  lack  gratitude  for 


278  AN    AUTHOR    AT    HOME. 

the  gentle  spirit  that  shines  out  through  all  these  little 
services  ? 

"Just  married,  you  are?  You  have  sat  down  together 
at  the  hearth  to  talk  it  all  over. 

"  There  are  the  old  folks — of  course  they  must  come  in 
for  their  share.  How  bravely  did  mother  look  on  while 
she  was  giving  away  her  darling  to  a  stranger!  How 
generous  the  denial  that  was  made  for  nothing  but 
another's  happiness !  With  what  a  hearty,  holy  zest  was 
that  blessing  bestowed  by  the  father  while  he  rocked  his 
child's  head  on  his  tempest-torn  breast !  They  will  all 
want  to  hear  how  she  gets  on ;  certainly  shall  they,  even 
to  the  minutest  items  of  your  daily  wedded  life.  They 
will  wonder  among  themselves — brothers  and  sisters — if 
she  is  in  the  least  homesick,  and  if  her  heart  ever  aches 
to  see  them  once  more.  No — no  !  Not  a  bit  of  such  a 
feeling  as  that,  though  she  would  gladly  welcome  them 
all  to  her  own  new  home. 

"  It  does  not  seem  as  if  so  sweet  a  dream  could  be  any 
thing  but  a  dream.  It  is  too  pleasant  to  be  any  thing 
more  than  an  illusion.  It  can  not  be  that  all  the  desires 
of  your  heart,  all  the  hopes  of  ygur  ambition,  all  the 
dreams  of  your  youth,  are  at  last  ripened  and  gathered. 
That  your  wife? — the  very  name  makes  you  already 
half-start.  You  find  yourself  gazing  fixedly  upon  her; 
more  thoughtfully,  too,  that  you  may  assure  yourself 
over  and  over  again  of  the  real  possession  of  so  much 
happiness. 

"  Young — are  you  ? 

"  Then  there  are  so  many  more  years  of  delight,  of  deep 
delight  before  you.  Thank  Heaven — for  you  may — that 
you  were  led  to  marry  early ;  for  the  heart  is  quick  in 
youth — and  its  impulses  are  a  thousand  times  more  fervid 


AN    AUTHOR    AT    HOME.  279 

— and  its  draughts  of  pleasure  a  thousand  times  more  ex 
hilarating  than  a  score  of  years  later. 

"Then  so  much  the  closer  will  the  tendrils  of  your  feel 
ings  entwine,  till,  in  after  years,  there  shall  be  no  wrench 
ing  them  asunder.  The  sentiments  have  never  yet  been 
allowed  time  to  take  root ;  but  they  will  strike  deeply  into 
a  soil  now,  from  which  all  the  winds  and  storms  of  after 
life  shall  not  be  able  to  wrest  them.  And  all  the  tastes, 
and  fancies,  and  preferences,  will  now^  begin  to  take 
shape,  giving  your  nature  breadth  and  depth,  and  your 
character  proportion.  And  the  horde  of  petty  prejudices 
—envy,  and  malice,  and  selfishness — all  these  will  go 
back  scourged  to  their  dens,  unable  to  effect  a  permanent 
lodgment  in  the  disposition  that  has  no  room  for  any 
thing  but  love. 

"  So  little  time  ago  was  your  bridal !  It  seems  now 
long  years  of  bliss.  You  wonder — no,  you  do  not  won 
der — but  you  believe  it  will  always  be  so,  even  to  the 
end.  End?  Of  that  you  are  in  just  no  mood  to  think. 
This  is  nothing  but  the  beginning.  Who  would  be  reach 
ing  forward  into  the  gloomy  shadows  of  the  close  at  such 
a  time  as  this  ?  Exactly  on  the  threshold  ;  right  in  the 
pride  of  life  ;  just  in  the  flush  of  hope  ;  with  the  round 
dome  of  your  heaven  frescoed  all  over  with  such  charm 
ing  dreams  as  in  this  life  you  may  never  dream  again ! 

"  And  with  youth,  then  with  health,  then  with  a  noble 
aspiration.  How  grateful  you  are,  to  know  that  the  rich 
fruit  of  your  many  labors  will  be  shared  with  another; 
How  self-satisfied  to  feel  that  all  your  aims  are  unselfish, 
centering  in  another's  happiness  rather  than  your  own  ! 

"  Trials  ?  Oh,  yes ;  of  course  they  will  come.  As  soon 
expect  to  stay  the  blowing  of  the  winds,  when  they  start 
up  from  their  lairs  in  the  wilderness.  And  what  if  they 
do  come  ?  What  then  ?  Is  the  man  living,  young  or 


280  AN    AUTHOR    AT    HOME. 

old,  who  is  clear  of  them  altogether?  Can  finger  be 
pointed  to  a  single  heart  that  is  not  fretted  sorely  with 
perplexities,  or  distressed  witli  cares,  or  torn,  as  by 
thorns,  with  disappointments  and  griefs?  Are  beings 
any  where  to  be  found  in  the  body  whose  lives,  from 
youth  up,  are  not  thickly  beset  with  trials  of  health,  trials 
of  hope,  and  trials  of  happiness  ?  Is  human  existence, 
then,  such  a  pleasant  cheat,  that  we  live  but  to  enjoy, 
whether  the  right  has  ever  been  earned  or  not  ?  Are 
human  concerns  all  so  artfully  dovetailed  each  into  the 
other  that  there  is  no  fear  of  even  a  slight  jar  in  the  vast 
complexity  of  the  social  machinery  ? 

"  Ye"s ;  but  poverty  !     Who  can  bear  that  ? 

"  You  can.  All  can.  The  most  of  us  have  no  alter, 
native ;  but  plod  on  wearily  to  the  grave,  its  cloud  by 
day,  but  never  its  pillar  of  fire  by  night,  throwing  down 
a  shadow  across  our  paths. 

'*  But  she  will  suffer  !  Surely,  it  were  downright  heart- 
lessness  to  betray  so  guileless  a  nature  into  the  wilderness 
of  want.  You  have  taken  her  from  the  lap  of  plenty ; 
you  can  not  behold  her  patient  self-denial — her  daily  in 
nocent  evasions — her  affectionate  endurance,  while  you 
are  struggling  over  the  mountains  of  opposition  or  mis 
fortune,  in  the  hope  of  some  day  bettering  your  poor  con 
dition.  The  wasted  flesh — the  pinched  cheek — the  hag 
gard  look — the  colorless  lips — will  not  such  daily  sights 
wear  the  iron  still  deeper  into  your  soul,  till  regrets  rush 
in  to  break  down  the  barriers  your  tenderness  had  built 
about  your  home  ? 

"  Ah,  yes — but  look  straight  and  steadily  into  her  eyes, 
and  it  is  there  that  you  shall  read  her  ready  answer. 
Courage  is  hers,  a  thousand  times  more  than  it  belongs 
to  you.  Patience  surrounds  her  like  a  coat  of  triple  mail. 
Such  as  she  possess  endurance  beyond  what  selfish  and 


ANAUTHOKATIIOME.  281 

superficial  man  ever  dreamed.  When  you  are  able  to 
sound  the  depths  of  her  love,  you  can  then  understand 
the  strong,  martyr-like  spirit  with  which  she  defies  want, 
and  invites  the  greatest  sacrifices.  There  is  that  in  her 
nature,  that,  much  as  you  think  you  know  of  every  thing 
else,  you  still  know  nothing  at  all  about.  Weaker  than 
yourself,  she  is  still  many  and  many  times  stronger.  If 
the  bond  between  you  be  strained  by  trials,  what  then, 
so  long  as  it  can  not  break  ?  And  what  wrenching  can 
wrest  asunder  bands  that  have  been  forged  in  the  mys 
terious  smithy  of  love. 

"  If  you  want,  will  not  she  want,  too  ?  Will  it  not  be 
the  first  and  finest  token  of  her  devotion  that  she  shares 
whatever  Fortune  denies  you,  as  well  as  what  it  pours 
into  your  lap?  And  when  your  own  astonished  eyes  be 
hold  the  gratification  these  frequent  denials  for  your  sake 
yield  her,  will  you  not  go  to  your  tasks  taking  a  secret 
shame  to  yourself  that  you  fall  short  in  your  share  of  the 
endurance  ?  or  that  you  lack  what  is  required  of  you  in 
the  fortitude  ?  or  that  you  betray  the  weaker  heart  in 
brooding  over  troubles  that  demand  nothing  but  action 
and  indifference  to  rout  them  one  and  all  ?  Will  you  not 
take  strength  imperceptibly  to  your  heart,  and  infuse  a 
new  vigor  into  your  purpose,  from  daily  contact  with  an 
example  at  once  so  lofty  and  so  silent  ? 

"  Solitary  comfort  ?  Cigars  and  slippers  ?  Do  you  talk 
of  such  things  now  ?  And  if  you  selfishly  weigh  such 
trifles  with  the  abiding  happiness,  are  they  able  with 
all  your  pressing  down  to  kick  the  beam  ?  Solitary  com 
fort  !  You  would  not  call  it  comfort  now  at  all.  Slip- 
pei-s  at  evening,  with  your  rich  Havana,  and  your 
drowsy  dreams !  Why,  can  you  not  now  enjoy  these  so 
much  the  more  ?  What  is  there  to  hinder  you  ?  Will 
the  picture  of  that  sweet  face,  breaking  out  in  smiles 


282  AN    AUTHOR    AT    HOME. 

through  your  blue  and  white  smoke-wreaths,  like  an  an 
gel's  face  through  the  clouds,  turn  the  current  cf  your 
blood,  or  strike  any  thing  like  a  chill  to  your  heart  ? 
Will  the  consciousness  of  her  gentle  presence  at  your 
hearth,  abridge  by  the  veriest  trifle  the  full  enjoyment  of 
your  reveries,  when  her  own  endeared  face  and  image  go 
dancing  through  them  all  ? 

"  Old  authors,  your  favorites  !  Well ;  and  is  there  any 
special  tenure  known,  by  the  terms  of  which  their  rare 
and  radiant  fancies,  their  immortal  images,  and  their 
strong  and  inimitable  expression,  are  to  be  enjoyed  by 
yourself  alone  ?  Is  not  their  language  rather  for  eveiy 
appreciative  nature  ?  Are  not  their  sentiments  for  all 
persons,  and  for  all  time  ?  Will  you  lose  a  little  of  their 
light,  merely  because  another  wishes  to  borrow  from  it 
at  your  side  ? 

"  And  there  now  she  sits.  She  is  your  wife,  the  wife 
of  your  heart.  No  relationship  on  earth  so  close,  so  ab 
sorbing,  as  this.  She  feels  what  you  feel ;  she  loves  what 
you  love.  If  you  come  home  weary  to  your  hearth,  all 
is  ready  for  your  comfort  there;  and  in  the  stead  of 
only  gloomy  silence,  are  pleasant  and  aifectionate  syl 
lables  that  lift  your  spirits  out  of  the  fogs.  Your  em 
broidered  slippers,  so  soft  and  inviting — there  they  stand 
ready  for  your  feet.  Your  box  of  Havanas,  there  it  is, 
with  its  rich  russet  color,  got  down  from  the  upper  shelf 
against  your  coming.  Books — she  knows  your  favorites 
already  too  well,  and  has  laid  them  on  the  table  just  at 
your  elbow. 

"  Will  you  smoke  ?  She  will  chat  so  pleasantly  for  you 
the  while,  that  your  roll  of  weed  will  seem  to  you  in  com 
parison  quite  destitute  of  fragrance.  Will  you  read  ?  No 
ears  more  ready  than  hers,  and  no  heart  more  hungry  for 
sympathy  with  the  thoughts  of  your  well-thumbed  au- 


AN    AUTHOR     AT    HOME.  283 

thors.  Or  sit  idly,  rehearsing  the  histories  of  the  little 
day  just  gone  !  Thank  Heaven  for  a  companion  who  is 
able  to  make  you  wholly  happy  over  trifles  innocent  as 
these ! 

"  And  then  years  will  go  by,  wheeling  oif  with  their 
squadrons  of  cares  and  joys  into  the  past.  And  in  time 
the  hair  will  become  streaked  Avith  silver.  And  the  luster 
will  recede  in  the  eyes.  And  the  strength  will  become 
sapped  in  the  limbs.  Is  it  so  comfortable  a  thought  to 
you  that  you  shall  be  all  alone  then  ?  that  your  happiness 
will  lie  stranded  like  a  battered  old  hulk,  on  the  shifting 
sands  of  a  strange  shore?  Doth  not  your  heart  bound 
with  a  richer,  deeper,  steadier  pulse,  when  you  feel  that 
not  alone,  but  with  her  at  your  side,  you  will  totter  along 
hand  in  hand,  and  finally  '  go  down  the  hill  thegither  ?' 

"Immediately  upon  this -thought  I  started  from  my 
chair. 

"  '  Benedick,  or  Bachelor  !'  cried  I  aloud.  '  Who — who 
would  be  a  bachelor !'  " 

The  author  paused,  and  laid  down  his  manuscript. 
Mary  declared  it  was  all  delicious ;  she  had  enjoyed  it 
every  line.  Martha,  however,  was  silent.  There  was  a 
deep  flush  on  her  handsome  face,  and  her  eyes  kindled 
with  an  unusual  expression. 

"  Now  suppose  we  stroll  about  over  my  little  garden," 
suggested  Mr.  Holliday,  rising  quickly  to  his  feet.  "  It 
will  certainly  be  much  pleasanter  than  sitting  here !" 
And  they  went  out  through  the  door.  Yet  all  the  way 
down  the  stairs,  and  all  the  way  around  the  garden- 
walks,  and  indeed  for  all  the  morning  after,  the  dream 
of  the  young  author  was  brooding  like  a  pleasant  halo 
around  the  younger  sister,  and  her  heart  confessed  a  secret 
delight  that  had  never,  never  been  known  to  it  before. 


CHAPTER    XXVIII. 

A     SOBER     BECKONING. 

WHILE  the  evening  sun  was,  going  down  behind  the 
long  spires  of  the  city,  gilding  them  all  till  they  looked 
like  slender  pencils  of  living  light,  and  throwing  a  vail  of 
splendor  over  roofs,  gables,  and  chimneys  ;  and  while  the 
few  who  loitered  about  the  streets  adjacent  to  the  slips 
and  quays — men  of  business  preparing  to  go  home,  or 
sailors  and  'longshoremen  sailing  and  drifting  hither  and 
thither  in  little  shoals — seemed  intent  on  nothing  at  all  in 
the  world,  a  young  man  was  to  be  seen  walking  through 
the  street  on  which  Mr.  Jacob  Dollar  enjoyed  the  wide 
renown  of  transacting  business,  glancing  hastily  at  the 
numbers  on  the  doors  as  he  went  along. 

He  stepped  firmly,  and  his  countenance  wore  a 
thoroughly  manly,  and  therefore  handsome  expression. 
If  one  could,  by  such  outward  tokens  as  offered  them 
selves,  come  to  any  conclusion  respecting  the  nature  of 
his  business,  it  "would  readily  be  inferred  that  he  was 
bound  on  an  errand  that  might  have  been  engrossing  his 
thoughts  for  a  long  while. 

It  was  so.     The  young  man  was  Duncan  Morrow. 

As  he  arrived  at  the  door  of  which  he  was  in  search, 
and  to  which  was  duly  attached  the  narrow  strip  of  tin 
inscribed  with  his  uncle's  name,  he  stopped  short  a  mo 
ment,  and  taking  a  few  long  and  deep  breaths,  ascended 
the  stairs. 


A    SOBER    BECKONING.  285 

Again  was  his  uncle  alone ;  he  could  see  that  he  was, 
through  the  little  windows.  "  Is  he  always  alone  ?"  he 
could  not  help  asking  himself. 

Opening  the  office  door,  he  went  boldly  in,  and  there 
in  the  dim  twilight  confronted  him. 

"  Good  afternoon,  sir !"  saluted  Duncan,  with  a  bow 
that  was  likewise  intended  for  a  respectful  one. 

"Um!"  exclaimed  the  other,  in  a  gruff  undertone, 
changing  color  a  little.  But  no  further  reply. 

"  Never  mind  for  that !"  thought  the  young  man. 
"  This  is  no  time,  at  all  to  stand  on  ceremonies  !" 

"  I  've  come  to  see  you,  uncle,  privately,"  said  Dun 
can,  "  on  some  business  of  my  own.  You  are  perfectly  at 
leisure,  I  hope  ?" 

"  No — no  ;  I  'm  not,"  eagerly  answered  Mr.  Dollar, 
looking  round  angrily.  "  I  'm  not  at  leisure,  sir.  I  ex 
pect  a  gentleman  in  to  see  me,  every  minute.  He  '11  be 
here  now,  very  soon;  very  soon,  sir!"  and  he  looked  in 
the  direction  of  the  door,  as  if  that  imaginary  person 
might  be  about  to  enter. 

"Then  I  will  leave  just  as  soon  as  he  makes  his  appear 
ance,"  returned  Duncan,  not  in  the  least  disconcerted. 
"  Meantime,  let  me  go  on  with  what  I  came  to  see  you 
about." 

And  with  all  the  deliberation  in  the  world,  he  sat 
down. 

Mr.  Dollar's  eyes  flashed  strangely  indeed.  He  be 
came  suddenly  very  uneasy  in  his  chair.  He  brushed  his 
hand  briskly  across  his  forehead,  and  to  and  fro  over  the 
bald  spot  on  his  crown.  It  was  as  plain  to  Duncan  as 
need  be,  that  a  more  unwelcome  visitor  than  himself,  at 
that  hour,  could  not  have  made  his  appearance. 

"  I  conclude,"  began  the  young  man,  rather  leisurely 
than  otherwise,  "  that  you  still  recollect  something  I  had 


286  A    SOBER    BECKONING. 

to  say  to  you,  when  I  was  here  last,  about  the  little  prop 
erty  my  mother  left  ?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  quite  shortly  returned  his  uncle.  "I 
remember  nothing  at  all  about  it." 

"  You  do  not  recollect,  then,  telling  me  at  that  time, 
that  you  were  perfectly  ignorant  of  my  mother's  leaving 
any  property,  of  any  value  ?" 

Staring  hard  at  him,  as  if  he  would  demand  by  what 
authority  he  came  in  there  to  interrogate  and  cross-ques 
tion  him,  he  answered  still  more  crustily,  "Recollect 
nothing  at  all  about  it.  Why  should  I  ?" 

And  thereupon  he  again  rubbed,  first  his  forehead,  then 
the  bald  patch,  and  finally  adjusted  his  cravat  with  much 
uneasiness. 

"And  recollect  nothing,"  pursued  Duncan,  "of  my 
speaking  of  your  having  had  the  whole  care  of  it?" 

"  No,  sir," — very  short  indeed. 

"  That 's  strange,"  mused  the  young  man,  half  aloud, 
throwing  his  eyes  up  at  the  wall. 

"  Yes ;  strange  things  happen  very  often,  sir,"  observed 
his  uncle. 

"Very  well;  then  nothing  is  left  me  but  to  set  this 
down  as  one  of  them,"  returned  he,  with  resoluteness. 
"  It  is  a  matter  that  will  admit  of  no  dispute  whatever, 
that  I  did  speak  to  you — and  when  I  was  last  here,  too, 
— of  my  mother's  estate  !" 

Thereupon,  Mr.  Dollar,  intending  no  doubt  to  impress 
him  more  properly  with  a  just  sense  of  his  own  presence 
and  dignity,  bestowed  upon  him  still  another  look,  more 
frowning  and  severe  than  before  ;  as  if  he  were  hesitating 
the  least  bit  in  the  world  about  getting  angry  outright. 

Said  he,  at  length,  "  Do  you  mean  to  come  here  to 
charge  me  with — with — " 

"  No,  sir ;    no,  sir ;    not  at  all.     I  charge  you  with 


A.    SOB1-1R    RECKONING.  287 

nothing ;  and  I  wish  to  charge  you  with  nothing.  I  only 
mean  to  say,  however,  and  I  do  hereby  say  to  you,  that 
you  appear  to  have  a  very  defective  memory !  That  ig 
all,  sir !" 

"  Is  that  all,  indeed  ?  And  let  me  tell  you  that  that  is 
a  good  deal  more  than  I  usually  allow  any  one  to  come 
in  here  to  tell  me  !  A  good  deal  more,  sir  !  Do  you  get 
my  meaning  ?" 

"I  hardly  think  there 's  much  danger  of. my  mistaking 
it,"  answered  Duncan.  "  It  would  certainly  be  nobody's 
fault  but  my  own,  if  I  failed  to  do  so." 

"  But,  in  Heaven's  name,"  burst  forth  Mr.  Dollar, 
"  what  has  all  this  stuff  to  do  with  me  ?  What  are  you 
talking  about  ?  What  are  you  here  for  ?  I  guess  you  've 
mistaken  the  office !" 

"At  least,"  said  his  nephew,  as  deferentially  as  he 
could,  under  all  the  circumstances,  "  if  I  have  got  into  the 
wrong  office,  I  am  sure  of  having  found  the  right  indi 
vidual  !  The  person  whom  I  have  come  here  expressly  to 
see  is  Mr.  Jacob  Dollar ;  my  own  uncle,  too ;  and  no 
other  person  in  the  world." 

Something  it  was  in  the  tone  of  Duncan,  whether  the 
ease  or  the  resoluteness,  or  both  so  well  combined,  that 
entangled  the  feelings  of  Mr.  Dollar  still  more  inextric 
ably  in  the  mesh  of  perplexity,  and  he  seemed  about  to 
lose  fiis  patience  "altogether. 

"  Your  uncle  !"  repeated  he,  sneeringly,  catching  up  a 
newspaper,  and  as  suddenly  throwing  it  down  again. 

"  I  can  not  deny  the  relationship,  as  I  see,"  said  Dun 
can,  "even  if  that  might  be  supposed  to  be  my  wish,  sir. 
The  fact  stands  out  just  as  it  is." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  his  uncle,  speaking  half  compassion 
ately  of  the  dead,  "I  know  I  happened  to  be  the  brother 
of  your  poor  mother.  I  grant,  too,  that  she  went  and 


288  A    SOBBB    BECKONING. 

threw  herself  away  in  marrying  as  she  did.  But  I 
couldn't  help  that.  It's  a  thing  I  can't  help  now,  either. 
That 's  all  passed  and  gone  forever. — Poor  girl !" 

"  You  never  need  have  any  fears,"  proudly,  and  rather 
defiantly,  replied  Duncan,  "that  either  her  maiden  name, 
or  her  still  living  relatives,  will  be  brought  into  disgrace 
by  any  of  the  fruits  of  her  marriage.  That  happens  to 
be  a  something,  very  fortunately,  sir,  beyond  your  con 
trol." 

"  Um !"  answered  Mr.  Dollar,  nettled  terribly ;  and  he 
fell  to  stroking  his  chin. 

"  But  I  wish  to  say  more  of  my  mother.  It  is  what  I 
have  come  here  expressly  for." 

"  All  you  please — all  you  please.  Without  any  doubt 
she  was  one  of  the  very  best  of  women." 

"  You  speak  truly ;  she  was,  indeed.  None  knew  her 
who  did  not  love  her.  She  was  a  general  favorite  every 
where.  But  by  none  was  she  more  beloved,  sir,  than  by 
her  own  children.  I  don't  know  as  it 's  necessary  that  I 
should  say  even  that,  especially  in  the  presence  of  her 
brother." 

"  Oh,  it 's  all  natural  enough,"  returned  Mr.  Dollar,  af 
fecting  a  wonderful  degree  of  careless  ease  in  his  manner. 
"  It 's  just  as  it  should  be.  I  'm  sure,  I  'm  glad  to  hear  it 
is  so.  Such  intelligence  is  calculated  to  make  any  brother 
feel  perfectly  satisfied." 

"  Yes,"  pursued  Duncan,  keeping  to  his  purpose  perse- 
veringly ;  "  and  it  is  because  I  happened  to  love  this  dear 
mother  of  mine  so  much  that  I  have  come  to  the  deter 
mination  to  do  justice  to  her  memory  in  every  particular. 
She  died,  as  you  may  well  know,  leaving  two  children  ; 
my  sister  Alice,  and  myself." 

"  Well,  no  ;  I  did  n't  know  that,"  answered  his  uncl  ?, 
as  if,  even  after  knowing  it,  he  cared  still  less  about  it. 


A    SOBEK     BECKONING.  289 

"  Alice,  poor  girl !  lias  been  deaf  and  dumb  from  in 
fancy.  Since  I  was  able  I  have  supported  her  myself;  it 
has  been,  I  fear,  but  a  sorry  kind  of  support  some  of  the 
time ;  but  it  was  the  best  I  could  do,  especially  without 
the  least  assistance  from  relatives  whose  help  would  have 
been  worth  something." 

"  That 's  all  -perfectly  right,"  said  Mr.  Dollar.  "  I  like 
the  looks  of  that,  I  'm  sure." 

"  After  having  searched  through  the  whole  matter  as 
thoroughly  as  possible,"  persevered  the-  nephew,  "  I  dis 
cover,  to  a  positive  certainty,  that  my  mother  left  property 
enough  of  her  own  in  your  care  to  make  my  poor  sister 
comfortable  for  life.  I  want  to  know  what  there  is  to  be 
said  and  done  further  about  it ;  and  I  have  come  to  the 
conclusion,  too,  that  the  matter  ought  not  to  lie  in  this 
state  any  longer.  This  is  exactly  the  object  of  my  visit 
to-night." 

"  In  my  hands  !  Your — mother — left — prop-er-ty- — 
in — my — hands  !"  exclaimed  his  uncle,  drawing  every 
word. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  promptly  replied  Duncan ;  "  in  your  hands. 
That  I  am  perfectly  persuaded  of." 

"  What 's  given  you  that  idea,  I  'd  like  to  know  ?"  de 
manded  Mr.  Dollar,  quite  briskly. 

"  I  will  tell  you,  sir:  in  the  first  place,  it  was  what  she 
told  me  herself;  in  the  next  place,  she  IMA  so  stated  it  in 
her  will." 

"  Her  will !  Did  she  make  a  will?  What  had  she  got 
to  bequeath,  in  Heaven's  name  V" 

"  She  did'make  a  will,"  returned  the  nephew  ;  "  and  in 
that  instrument  she  saw  fit  to  make  a  disposition  of  her 
property.  Of  course  she  would  not  have  done  so  unless 
there  was  something  to  be  disposed  of.  As  I  said,  sir,  that 
will  is  one  proof  of  her  having  deposited  what  little  she 

13 


290  A    SOBER    RECKONING. 

once  possessed,  in  your  hands ;  and  I  carry  that  proof 
about  with  me.  I  have  it  now." 

"  Won't  you  let  me  see  it  ?"  asked  his  uncle,  reaching 
out  his  hand.  - 

"I  should  prefer  not  to,  sir,  just  now,"  resolutely  refused 
the  nephew.  "  I  am  not  here  to  prove  or  disprove  any 
thing.  What  I  want  to  know  is,  simply  whether  you  are 
willing  to  make  suitable  return  soon  of  the  trust  confided 
in  you.  If  so,  then  I  will  come  at  some  other  time,  and  the 
matter  shall  be  brought  to  a  close  in  due  form.  Of  course, 
the  property  has  improved  considerably  in  your  hands  ?" 

His  uncle  was  thoroughly  aroused  now,  for  he  -seemed 
to  see  the  danger  of  his  mean  duplicity  staring  him  full  in 
the  face.  "  What  nonsense,"  exclaimed  he,  "  to  make  a 
will  when  there  's  nothing  to  leave  !  It 's  Just  of  a  piece 
with  half  the  things  women  do.  The  fact  is,  they  never 
knew  any  thing  about  business,  and  they  never  will.  How 
ever,"  he  added,  as  if  breaking  away  from  the  thought 
that  fettered  him,  "  it  does  n't  make  a  great  deal  of  dif 
ference,  I  guess,  whether  she  made  a  will  or  not.  It 's 
nothing  more  than  so  much  blank  paper,  any  how." 

"You  will  find,"  returned  Duncan,  with  his  usual  spirit, 
"  that  it  does  make  all  the  difference  in  the  world.  In 
the  first  place,  it  certainly  goes  to  show  that  she  had 
property  to  leave.,  and  that  she  was  perfectly  aware  of  it, 
besides.  This  will  was  made  by  her  on  her  dying  bed  ; 
and  of  course  its  statements  are  to  be  received  as  of  vastly 
more  weight  and  importance  than  ordinary  ones  would 
naturally  carry  with  them.  In  the  next  place,  it  makes  a 
great  deal  of  difference  to  me  whether  my  only  sister — 
deaf  and  dumb,  too — is  made  comfortable  for  life  by  it,  or 
goes  without  what,  by  every  rule  of  justice,  fairly  belongs 
to  her.  There 's  where  the  matter  rests.  You  see  that 
much,  Mr.  Dollar,  don't  you  ?" 


A    SOBER    RECKONING.  291 

"  I  don't  see  what  all  this  has  to  do  with  me,  sir,"  said 
his  uncle. 

"  It  has  this  to  do  with  you,  then  :  that  as  you  received 
into  your  hands  the  little  heap  of  my  mother's  fortune  in 
trust  for  her  own  and  her  children's  benefit,  you  will  be 
looked  to  now  for  the  full  surrender  of  all  that  you  re 
ceived — every  dollar !" 

His  uncle  looked  at  him  steadily  a  moment  with  min 
gled  astonishment  and  anger. 

"  This  is  loud  talk,  young  man,"  said  he,  lowering  his 
voice  ;  "  very  loud  talk  !  Do  you  know  it  ?" 

"  When  I  set  myself  about  an  affair  of  business,  Mr. 
Dollar,"  said  Duncan,  "I  never  mean  to  be  put  aside  by 
any  of  the  little  obstacles  that  come  up  in  my  path.  I 
intend  to  finish  what  I  begin,  always ;  especially  a  busi 
ness  of  the  highly  important  character  that  this  possesses. 
As  you  must  see  yourself,  at  a  single  glance,  this  is  cer 
tainly  a  matter  of  the  first  interest  to  me ;  and  not  less  to 
me  than  to  my  dear  sister,  and  the  memory  of  my  dead 
mother ;  and  still  further,  to  your  own  self,  Mr.  Dollar !" 

"Well,  but  I  don't  see  that.  I  don't  see  what  I've 
got  to  do  with  it,  any  way ;  or  why  I  should  take  any 
sort  of  interest  in  it." 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Duncan  ;  "  if  you  don't,  then  it  must 
needs  be  explained  fo  you.  You  shall  not  certainly  be 
made  to  suffer  through  ignorance.  This  matter  interests 
you,  then,"  he  went  on,  "because  just  so  surely  as  you 
refuse  to  give  up  and  restore  what  was  placed,  almost 
sacredly,  in  your  management,  you  will  be  made  to  give 
it  up !  I  speak  openly  to  you,  Mr.  Dollar,  and  without 
the  least  idea  of  reserve.  I  mean  just  what  I  say,  and 
nothing  less.  It  is  enough  for  me  that  at  this  very 
moment  I  understand  the  matter  through  and  through. 
No  further  explanations  are  needed  by  me,  either  one 


292  A    SOBER    BECKONING. 

way  or  the  other.  I  am  ready  and  waiting  to  go  forward 
just  as  soon  as  you  betray  unwillingness  to  return  what 
never  was  your,  own,  and  what  must  have  assisted  you  in 
the  first  place  in  the  accumulation  of  all  you  now  possess. 
My  purpose  is  fixed!" 

"  Young  man,"  said  Mr.  Jacob  Dollar,  his  eyes  flashing 
and  his  face  burning  with  rage,  while  he  was  almost  insuf 
ferably  impatient  of  the  restraint  thus  placed  upon  him 
by  his  penniless  nephew — "young  man,  you  very  evi 
dently  do  not  know  who  you  are  talking  to,  or  what  you 
are  talking  about !  It  is  my  advice  that  you  go  home 
and  consider  upon  this  matter  a  little  longer.  There  is 
such  a  thing  as  being  mistaken,  though  you  may  not  have 
thought  of  it.  And  there  's  such  another  thing  as  being 
in  too  great  a  hurry  about  a  matter.  You  '11  find,  if  you 
take  my  advice  and  think  it  all  over  coolly,  that  you  have 
fallen  into  both  errors.  Just  go  back  home  again,  and 
resolve  to  yourself  that  for  the  future  you  '11  be  more 
cautious !" 

Duncan  rose  slowly  from  his  seat.  He  stood  up  at  his 
full  height,  and  with  a  proud  and  resolute  mien.  His  lips 
were  pale,  but  their  lines  were  marked  with  all  the  firm 
ness  of  fixed  determination.  His  brow  was  clouded,  yet 
across  it  fell  no  shade  of  perplexity.  His  bright  eyes 
flashed  a  fire  from  their  very  depths,  that  would  of  itself 
have  scorched  and  withered  the  soul  of  any  other  than 
such  a  being  as  Jacob  Dollar  without  a  single  syllable 
from  his  lips. 

"Then  at  last,  and  for  the  last  time,"  said  the  nephew, 
"I  understand  you.  What  you  now  say  is  final  ?  You 
deny,  once  for  all,  any  participation  in  this  mean  and  dis 
honest  transaction?  You  refuse  -to  restore  what  I  am 
ready  to  show  you  have  taken  ?  Is  that  it  ?" 

"  You  do  understand  me,  sir,"  answered   his   uncle. 


A    SOBER    BECKONING.  293 

"And  now  the  sooner  you  leave  this  room  the  more  com 
fortably  you  will  be  likely  to  get  down  the  stairs !  You 
understand  that,  I  suppose,  too?" 

"  Well  then,"  rejoined  Duncan,  "  I  simply  wish  you  to 
remember  that  the  proofs  of  your  iniquity,  which  I  carry 
continually  about  with  me,  are  such  as  will  blast  you  and 
your  name  forever !  I  shall  see  to  it  that  they  are  put 
to  good  service  instantly!  Good-day,  sir.  We  may 
meet  again ;  and  it  may  be  under  altogether  different  cir 
cumstances  !" 

And  in  a  moment  he  was  gone. 

As  he  emerged  from  the  door  below  stairs  and  wend 
ed  his  way  along  up  the  street,  the  shadows  already 
beginning  to  gather  in  the  angles  of  the  buildings  on 
either  side — had  he  been  curious  enough  to  glance  be 
hind  him  but  for  an  instant,  he  would  have  caught  the 
outline  of  a  mysterious-looking  person  following  at  a 
little  distance  after  him. 

And  more  than  this  even — could  he  have  been  near 
enough  to  listen  to  the  few  ominous  syllables  that  fell 
from  the  lips  of  that  mysterious  figure,  he  would  have 
heard  the  strange  words  sounding  sepulchrally  in  his  ears 
— "  That 's  the  feller,  eh  ?  I  guess  I  sh'll  know  him  ag'in, 
though !" 

The  person  was  Isaac  Crankey ;  and  this  espionage  he 
had  been  set  upon  just  at  that  time  by  the  watchful  Henry 
Dollar,  who  happened  to  catch  sight  of  his  cousin  on  hia 
way  to  his  father's  office. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE     DOUBLE     S  E  C  B  E'T  . 

ONLY  a  few  minutes  had  he  been  gone  from  the  office 
of  Mr.  Dollar,  when  the  latter,  who  had  become  quite 
uneasy  with  nothing  but  the  companionship  of  his  re 
flections,  jumped  up  from  his  chair,  and  went  down  stairs 
at  a  rapid  rate. 

He  was  angry — that  could  not  be  denied.  The  flush 
of  hot  blood  in  his  cheeks  betrayed  it  if  nothing  else  had. 

And  his  quick  step,  and  the  nervousness  of  his  whole 
manner  made  the,  proof  complete.  Hurrying  along  up 
the  street,  he  had  hardly  gone  the  distance  of  half  a 
block  when  he  overtook  Isaac  Crankey. 

"  Just  the  one  I  wanted  to  see  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Dollar, 
passing  him  and  turning  round  as  if  a  sudden  thought 
had  occurred  to  him.  "Just  the  very  man  !" 

"  Always  at  your  service,  sir,"  returned  Isaac,  tipping 
his  greasy  visor  with  a  knowing  look  in  the  other's  face. 

"  Go  right  back  to  my  office  !"  said  Mr.  Dollar.  "  Go 
right  back  !  I  want  you !" 

The  man  turned  half  round  preparatory  to  obeying  the 
order. 

"  No  one  's  round  here  in  partic'ler,  is  there?  Nobody 
sees  us,  think  you  ?"  continued  the  man  of  money. 

"  I  can't  see  as  there  does ;  I  guess  it 's  all  right," 
answered  Isaac,  turning  his  quid  in  his  mouth,  while  his 


THE    DOUBLE    SECRET.  295 

eyes  sparkled  with  fresh  intelligence.  "  No  danger  as  I 
can  see." 

"  Then  go  ahead,  Crankey !"  said  Mr.  Dollar.  "  I  '11  be 
there  right  after  you.  Run  on !  I  must  see  you  to-night." 

And  Isaac  turned  now  fully  around,  and  hurried  off  to 
the  place  whither  he  had  been  directed. 

When  Mr.  Dollar  joined  him  again  in  the  office  up 
stairs  he  had  taken  the  precaution  to  shut  and  secure  the 
lower  door.  After  that  he  felt  that  he  need  have  no 
dread  of  interruption. 

"  Now  we  are  alone,"  said  he  to  Isaac,  as  he  took  his 
seat  again  in  his  office-chair.  "  Now  I  can  say  just  ex 
actly  what  I  want  to  say  without  any  fears  of  being  over 
heard." 

Isaac  smiled,  for  he  could  feel  his  fee  already. 

"  Crankey,"  said  Mr.  Dollar,  in  a  bland  and  highly  con 
ciliatory  voice,  "  you  've  done  a  good  many  useful  little 
jobs  for  me,  in  your  way !" 

"Wai — yes;  I  b'lieve  I  have,"  returned  Isaac,  care 
lessly  rubbing  his  head;  "an'  I  guess  you '11  say  I've  in 
variably  done  'em  well,  too." 

"  No  cause  for  complaint,"  said  Mr.  Dollar.  "  Not  the 
firsf  cause  for  complaint.  And  I  have  paid  you  well  for 
them,  have  n't  I  ?  Always  paid  you  well  for  them  ? 
Never  disputed  your  price — nor  any  thing  of  that  kind  ?" 

"Alwuz  paid  me  like  a  man,  Mr.  Dollar.  I  don't 
complain.  I  never  did  complain.  I  only  wish  there 
was  more  like  you  !" 

"  Wellr  well — that 's  enough.  That 's  all  I  wanted  to 
know.  We're  square,  then.  All  our  old  accounts  are 
settled,  are  n't  they  ?" 

"  I  b'lieve  they  be,"  answered  Isaac,  who  in  his  heart 
of  avarice  would  eagerly  have  seized  upon  the  lightest 
pretext  for  the  establishment  of  a  new  claim. 


296  THE    DOUBLE    SECRET. 

To  one  who  did  not  thoroughly  know  Mr.  Dollar,  with 
all  his  strange  peculiarities,  such  a  conversation  as  this 
of  his  with  a  degraded  being  like  Isaac  Crankey,  would 
have  been  an  anomaly  past  explanation  or  unravelment. 
To  his  own  sense  of  what  became  him,  judging  as  he  must 
have  done,  from,  a  stand-point  that  he  very  well  under 
stood,  it  was  quite  within  the  legitimate  limits  of  his 
business  operations  ;  and  of  his  character  none  the  less. 

"  What  I  called  you  in  here  for  this  time,"  said  he, 
seeking  to  give  him  a  timely  taste  of  the  feast  in  prepara 
tion,  "  is  to  offer  you  a  little  something  more !  No  ob 
jection,  have  ye  ?" 

"  Aha !  My  palm  's  been  itchin'  these  many  days  !" 
answered  the  ruffian.  "  It 's  been  wantin'  to  be  covered  !" 

"Then  I  know  you're  ready  for  what  I'm  going  to 
ask  you  to  do.  It 's  -really  very  fortunate  ;  I  could  n't 
well  do  without  you — I'll  say  that  much;  and  if  this 
thing  was  allowed  to  run  many  days  I  might  n't  feel  quite 
so  much  like  doing  it ;  and  then  again,  you  see,  it  would 
most  likely  be  too  late.  You  understand,  I  conclude  ?" 

"  I  guess  I  do.  Nothin'  like  strikin'  while  the  iron 's 
hot,  Mr.  Dollar — is  ther'  ?  It 's  jest  what  I  always  say 
to  my  friends ;  an'  I  ruther  guess  I  've  got  lot's  of  'em." 

Mr.  Dollar's  face  suddenly  flushed  again.  The  recol 
lection  of  what  had  so  lately  passed  between  him  and 
his  young  nephew  rushed  rapidly  over  his  brain,  and 
fierce  anger  took  control  of  his  heart. 

"Did  you  pass  a  young  man  just  now?"  asked  he, 
lowering  his  voice  nearly  to -a  whisper. 

"  Pass  a  man  ?  Yes — no  !  Yes  I  did ;  leastways,  he 
passed  me,  I  guess.  How  was  he  dressed  ?  Do  you  re 
member  ?" 

And  making  a  vigorous  effort  to  recall  every  thing, 
while  he  was  likewise  wondering  in  secret  if  he  could 


THE    DOUBLE    SECRET.  297 

mean  the  same  individual  that  he  had  just  been  set  to 
watch  by  his  own  son  Henry,  he  cast  his  eyes  down  upon 
the  floor. 

"  He  wore  a  hat,"  answered  the  merchant,  thought 
fully  ;  "  and  a  frock-coat  of  a  brown  color.  I  did  n't  no 
tice  the  remainder  of  his  dressy  in  particular." 

"  Whiskers  ?"  asked  Isaac,  in  a  single  word. 

"  Yes,  whiskers.    All  the  way  round  his  face  they  were." 

"  Ah,  I  see  him  then,"  returned  Isaac,  squirting  a  plen 
tiful  stream  of  tobacco  juice  into  the  dark  and  dirty  little 
grate. 

"  First  let  me  tell  you  his  name,  and  who  he  is,"  said 
Mr.  Dollar,  "  so  that  you  won't  fail  to  know  him  when 
you  see  him  again.  It 's  Morrow ;  Duncan  is  his  given 
name.  He 's  a  sort  of  a  clerk  or  a  bookkeeper,  or  a  what 
not  or  other,  in  a  merchant-house  in  the  city.  They  em 
ploy  him,  I  've  heard.  And  that 's  all  I  know  about  that." 

"  Exactly,"  chimed  in  the  man  of  violence. 

"  Now,  to  come  right  to  it  at  once,"  added  Mr.  Dollar, 
"  here  is  the  point,  and  here  's  the  pinch  ; — " 

"  That 's  what  I  'm  lookin'  for,  ye  see ;"  interrupted 
Isaac. 

"  — This  young  fellow  is  a  nuisance  to  me !  He  gets 
in  my  way !  I  can't  keep  him  out  of  it !  Only  a  few 
minutes  ago,  he  left  the  very  seat  you  're  in  now ;  and  in 
that  seat  he  had  been  threatening  me  with  the  most 
wicked  and  unheard-of  treatment !" 

"  He !"  sneered  the  other,  as  well  he  might  have  sneered 
from  knowing  something  of  Mr.  Dollar's  wealth,  and  of 
his  opponent's  poverty.  "  Why  in  the  world  sh'd  you  be 
afraid  o'  him  ?  Why,  he  han't  got  no  power  by  the  side 
o'  such  as  you,  Mr.  Dollar !" 

"Perhaps  he  hasn't ;  and  then,  perhaps  he  's  got  much 
more  than  I  know  any  thing  about.  At  all  events,'  and 

13* 


298  THE    DOUBLE    SECRET. 

Mr.  Dollar  braced  himself  with  an  enraged  gesture  in  his 
chair,  "  I  mean  that  he  shall  never  walk  into  this  place 
to  threaten  me  again  !" 

• "  No  more  would  I  let  him  do  it  .myself,"  answered 
Isaac.     "  In  fact  I  'm  pretty  sure  I  should  n't !" 

"  The  trouble  he  makes  me,"  went  on  the  merchant, 
dropping  his  voice  again,  "is  just  in  this  way  :  he  's  got 
a  paper  about  him,  that  he  told  me  himself  he  always 
carried  about  him ;  and  that  paper  m  ust  be  taken  out  of 
his  pocket !  In  other  words,  Crankey,  here 's  a  viper, 
and  you  can  see  his  fangs ;  those  fangs  must  be  pulled 
out ;  when  that 's  done,  he 's  as  harmless  as  any  body ! 
Do  you  think  you  get  my  meaning  now  ?" 

"Ho!  ho!"  laughed  the  other,  screwing  and  twisting 
his  body  about,  as  if  he  had  enjoyed  nothing  so  highly  in 
a  long  time ;  "  that 's  a  good  figger,  Mr.  Dollar !  Blamed 
if  'tan't !  You  ain't  never  very  hard  to  understand  in 
my  way  o'  thinkin' !" 

"  Very .  well,  then.  Now  the  next  thing  I  want  to 
know  is — " 

Crankey  settled  his  chin  soberly  on  his  breast,  under 
standing  very  well  what  was  coming. 

"  — If  you  are  with  me  in  such  a  kind  of  business  ?" 

And  Mr.  Dollar  eyed  his  companion  with  a  fierce  sort 
of  anxiety,  as  if  with  that  single  searching  glance  he  would 
look  him  through  and  through. 

"  How  do  ye  generally  find  me,  Mr.  Dollar  ?"  returned 
he,  looking  up  pleasantly  in  his  face. 

"  Oh,  as  for  that,  I  've  no  fault  to  find ;  no  fault  what 
ever.  I  've  told  you  so  before,  you  know." 

"  An'  I  've  got  no  fault  to  find  with  you,  neither. 
Won't  ye  please  to  go  on,  Mr.  Dollar  ?" 

"  Well  then,  in  few  words,"  said  he,  "  I  would  like  to 
have  you  obtain  possession  of  this  paper.  If  you  can 


THE    DOUBLE    SECBET.  299 

manage  to  take  every  thing  you  '11  find  in  his  pockets, 
you  can't  very  well  miss  this.  How  you  will  see  fit  to 
do  it,  is  not  for  me  to  inquire.  Yet  I  should  think  you 
could  manage  it  pretty  easily  ;  take  him  some  evening — 
he  goes  out,  I  understand ;  or  find  your  way  to  his  room 
when  he 's  asleep ;  or  almost  any  way  you  might  think 
best.  All  I  want,  you  know,  is  that  single  paper !  It 's 
going  to  be  the  means' of  making  me  a  great  deal  of  mis 
chief  unless  I  can  get  it  into  my  hands  at  once,  and  de 
stroy  it!  Suppose  I  leave  this  whole  matter  to  your 
skillful  management  ?  What  do  you  say  ?" 

Isaac  had  been  thinking.  His  mind  was  pulling  at  two 
strings.  One  of  them  had  been  placed  in  his  hand  by 
young  Henry  Dollar,  and  now  the  other  was  just  fur 
nished  by  his  equally  criminal  father.  The  ruffian  could  not 
help  turning  over  at  the  moment  the  old  adage  that  has 
something  to  say  about."  killing  two  birds  with  one  stone." 

"  I  say  yes,  Mr.  Dollar,"  he  answered,  raising  his  head 
and  firing  another  stream  into  the  dull  little  grate. 

"  That 's  right !"  exclaimed  the  merchant,  rubbing  his 
hands  in  ill-concealed  glee.  "  Now  I  know  just  where  to 
find  you!" 

"  As  you  always  may,"  interrupted  Isaac. 

"  Then  you  engage  to  undertake  this  business  for  me, 
do  you  ?" 

"  Certain,  Mr.  Dollar ;  but  still  I  'd  orter  say  it  depends 
a  trifle  on  the  price,  you  know ;"  and  as  if  to  turn  off  the 
edge  of  his  suggestion  somewhat,  he  half  laughed  in  the 
merchant's  face. 

"  Well  then,"  resumed  Mr.  Dollar,  settling  in  his  chair, 
for  his  feelings  were  made  a  little  easier  now,  "  I  '11  be 
perfectly  fair  with  you,  and  I  '11  say  that  you  shall  do  this 
delicate  piece  of  business  forme  at  your  own  price!  How 
do  you  like  that  ?  It 's  fair,  is  n't  it  ?" 


300  THE    DOUBLE    SECRET. 

"  Certain,  certain  it  is ;  and  it 's  jest  like  nobody  but 
Mr.  Dollar,  too !"  he  returned,  employing  such  flattery 
as  came  to  him.  "But  you  see,"  said  he,  "it  costs  one  a 
good  deal  o'  trouble,  and  a  good  deal  more  money  be 
sides,  to  keep  a  secret,  an'  such  a  secret  as  this  too !  It's 
really  expensive,  Mr.  Dollar,  every  way  !" 

"  Oh,  well,  I  shan't  grudge  you  a  dollar  of  it,  not  a 
single  dollar.  As  soon's  your  work's  all  done,  you  '11  have 
your  money.  I  shah1  calculate  to  pay  it  down  promptly 
into  your  own  hand  ;  and  no  questions  asked,  either." 

"  That  suits  me,  I  'ni  sure,"  said  Isaac. 

"Then  you  are  fully  agreed  on  it?"  asked  Mr.  Dollar 
once  more,  as  if  still  in  some  vague  doubt. 

"  Yis,  I  am,"  was  the  prompt  reply. 

"  Here  's  something,  then,  to  bind  the  bargain,"  and 
he  handed  over  to  him  a  piece  of  gold  which  the  villain 
seized  with  an  eager  grasp.  "  Now  the  sooner  you  go 
about  your  work  the  better !" 

"  111  see  if  I  can't  do  it  this  very  night,  Mr.  Dollar,"  he 
returned,  in  a  whisper  that  sounded  fiendish  in  that  dark 
ened  little  apartment. 

His  expression,  if  one  could  have  noted  it,  was  sud 
denly  and  strangely  changed,  betokening  the  entire  su 
premacy  of  the  evil  one  over  his  hardened  heart.  Rising 
immediately  therefore,  from  his  seat,  he  moved  thought 
fully,  but  with  firmness,  to  the  door. 

"  You  are  sure  you  know  your  man  ?"  said  Mr.  Dollar, 
as  the  ruffian  went  out. 

"  I  guess  I  do !"  he  answered  quickly.  "  An'  what 's 
more,  I  happen  to  knpw  a  spot  where  he  passes  a  good 
many  nights  in  a  week,  to  see  some  young  woman  of  his 
acquaintance!  I  guess  I  can  tell  him,  ever  so  fur  off! 
I  've  got  my  man  in  my  eye,  sir !  You  jest  wait  and  be 
patient  till  you  hear  from  me  agin  !" 


THE    DOUBLE    SECEET.  301 

"  Slide  the  bolts  back  on  the  lower  door,  Crankey," 
said  Mr.  Dollar,  as  the  man  went  down  stairs. 

And  after  he  Avas  gone,  and  the  room  was  quite  still, 
and  the  merchant  saw  that  so  foul  and  so  wicked  a  deed 
had  been  determined  on  beyond  recall,  he  began  to  pace 
to  and  fro  across  the  floor,  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  his 
eyes  cast  downward  hi  thought.  He  felt  now  that  he  had 
taken  a  step,  that  it  was  not  in  his  power  to  retrace.  His 
conscience  moved  him  a  little ;  but  he  thrust  his  hat  on 
his  head,  and  exclaiming  aloud  to  himself,  "  The  fool ! 
he  's  brought  it  all  on  himself !"  passed  finally  out,  and 
locked  his  doors.  And  the  old  rooms  were  as  silent  as  if 
no  deed  of  darkness  and  violence  had  but  just  now  been 
plotted  there,  between  one  who  styled  himself  a  "  respect 
able"  merchant,  and  a  villainous  captain  of  robbers  and 
thieves. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

THE   BOOK   PEDDLER. 

MR.  BRINDALL — the  old  apple-dealer — came  home  in 
the  evening  later  than  usual,  weary  and  dusty.  He  placed 
his  big  basket  behind  the  door,  and  sat  down  and  wiped 
the  perspiration  from  his  forehead.  Fetching  a  deep 
sigh,  as  if  his  heart  that  night  was  more  troubled  than 
ever,  he  threw  an  affectionate  glance  at  his  devoted  friend 
— the  young  seamstress,  Fanny — and  then  fell  to  the 
study  of  the  shadows  that  were  creeping  and  skulking 
about  the  angles  of  the  little  area  out  of  the  window. 

"  What  is  the  matter  to-night,  father  ?"  asked  Fanny, 
in  a  tone  that  was  enough  to  equalize  the  most  irregular 
spirits.  "  Has  n't  tt-ade  gone  well  with  you  ?  Why  do 
you  take  such  very  long  breaths  ?"  „ 

"  Ah,  Fanny,  Fanny  !"  exclaimed  he,  very  slowly  and 
low ;  "  many  as  your  trials  are,  and  many  as  I  myself 
know  them  to  be,  you  don't  know  any  of  that  bitter,  bit 
ter  experience  that  I  know  !  Your  lips  have  never  had 
such  a  cup  held  to  them  as  that !  Enough  to  make  the 
stoutest  heart  sigh,  yes,  and  melt  itself  away  in  sighs ! 
Enough  to  drive  reason  out  of  the  strongest  brain!" 

"  What  is,  father  ?  What  is  ?"  she  inquired,  pausing 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor.  "  I  don't  know  what  you 
mean,  exactly.  I  don't  know  what  it  is  that  troubles 
you  so  very  much.  If  you  would  but  tell  me,  now,  I 


THE    BOOK    PEDDLE  B.  303 

think  I  could  give  you  some  little  relief.  I  am  pretty 
good  at  such  things,  ain't  I  ?  At  least  you  have  told  me 
that  I  am." 

"  Sympathy  is  good,"  said  the  other ;  "  and  your  sym 
pathy,  dear  Fanny,  is  of  the  sweetest.  Indeed  I  don't 
know  but  I  must  have  given  up  long  ago,  had  n't  it  been 
for  what  you  have  done  for  me.  But  still,"  here  he  be 
came  thoughtfhl  and  slow  in  speech  again,  "  there  is  a 
something  in  almost  every  heart,  that  no  other  heart 
can  quite  reach." 

"  Is  there  in  yours,  father  ?" 

For  a  moment  he  was  solemnly  silent.  -  * 

"  If  you  could  but  ask  the  stone  walls,  against  which  I 
lift  my  eyes  every  hour  in  the  long  days,  and  to  which  I 
offer  my  prayers  !" 

"  Offer  prayers  to  the  walls !"  she  exclaimed,  half-won 
dering  if  he  were  quite  in  his  right  mind. 

"  They  are  as  soft  as  the  hearts  of  men,"  he  answered. 
"  I  find  more  companionship  in  them.  They  offer  me 
more  sympathy.  Their  silence,  even,  is  more  welcome  to 
me  than  the  silence  of  men ;  for  they  give  me  back  no 
hard  or  scowling  looks;  they  have  no  such  heartless 
faces ;  they  are  mute,  and  I  am  mute ;  and  so  all  the 
day  we  keep  companionship.  Except  that  now  and  then 
I  throw  my  eyes  up  into  the  heavens,  and  wonder  if  all  is 
to  be  lived  over  again  up  there  !  I  can't  help  won 
dering  !" 

It  was  now  the  girl's  time  to  become  thoughtful ;  and 
seating  herself  near  him,  she  alternately  was  led  captive 
of  her  astonishment,  and  the  incoherent  talk  of  her  friend. 

"  If  a  man  never  is  to  get  up  in  the  world,"  said  he,  as 
if  he  were  thinking  aloud,  rather  than  talking  to  be  heard 
by  another,  "  if  there  never  '11  come  a  change,  never  a 
turn  in  the  long  lane,  never  a  lift  in  the  clouds,  nor  a 


304  THE    BOOK    PEDDLER. 

clearing  away  of  the  night,  why,  what 's  the  use  in  trying 
to  go  on  ?  Life 's  worth  nothing  at  all !  It 's  worth  less 
than  nothing !  Better  end  it  at  once,  than  to  grovel 
along  so  !  Better  try  that  which  we  know  to  be  so  un 
certain,  than  to  creep  on  one's  hands  and  knees  through 
the  remainder  of  life,  and  under  chains,  too  !  Oh,  why 
is  it  so  ?  Why  is  it  so  ?  Who  is  it  that  says  society 
shall  be  framed  in  this  way,  with  all  these  iron  bands  and 
barriers  ?  Who  is  it  that  is  strong  enough  to  say  that 
the  world  shall  build  itself  up  on  the  ruins  of  a  few  unfor 
tunate  ones  ;  and  that  those  few  shall  never,  never  rise  ? 
Who  has  the  right  to  make  these  fyrant  prejudices,  that 
shut  men  out  of  hope — out  of  all  sympathy  from  the  rest  ? 
that  snaps  off  the  link  of  dear  brotherhood,  and  declares 
that  it  shall  never  in  this  life  be  joined  on  again  ?  Oh, 
Heaven  !  to  be  an  outcast ! — to  wear  the  mark  of  Cain ! 
— to  bend,  and  bend,  and  stagger  so  unsteadily  under  the 
weight  of  a  burden  that  every  body  delights  to  make  as 
heavy  as  he  can !— to  look  wistfully  into  human  faces,  and 
find  not  the  first  mark  of  a  blessed  humanijty  there ! — to 
feel  about  one  for  human  hearts  and  be  repaid  with  gifts 
of  stone  and  ice !  Who  can  live  and  bear  up  under  such 
things  ?  Who  would  want  to,  when  the  escape  is  so  easy  ? 
— the  mere  prick  of  a  pin  ? — the  stopping  of  the  breath ! 
What  is  life  worth  on  such  hard  terms? — without  the 
riches  of  the  sympathy  of  your  own  kind  ? — without  any 
bright  spot  to  set  off  the  dizzy — dizzy  darkness  ?" 

He  paused  a  moment. 

"  But  you  have  my  sympathy,"  ventured  Fanny,  hardly 
daring  to  intrude  on  a  grief  that  seemed  so  overwhelm 
ing.  "  Is  not  that  something,  small  as  it  is,  father  ?" 

"  Oh,  God  bless  your  dear  heart,  my  little  one !"  he 
exclaimed.  "  So  I  have  !  So  I  have !  But  it  kills  me  to 
think  that  it  is  what  I  can  never  repay !  That  if  I  could 


THE    BOOK    PEDDLER.  305 

but  find  an  echo  in  other  hearts,  I  could  instantly  make 
your  own  dear  heart  overflow  with  joy  !" 

"  And  why  can  you  not  ?"  she  asked  him,  in  perfect 
childishness  and  innocency. 

"Don't  seek  to  know  any  further,"  he  answered. 
"It's  my  doom,  and  I  must  bear  it!  The  chain  that  is 
fastened  to  me,  I  must  clank  along  with  me  every*step  to 
the  grave  !  If  there  is  only  a  hope  that  after  that  I  shall 
be  free ! — only  a  single  faint  hope !" 

The  poor  girl,  perplexed  beyond  expression,  would 
gladly  have  probed  the  trouble  to  its  very  heart ;  but 
being  already  too  well  assured  from  his  manner  that  it  was 
what  on  no  terms  he  was  disposed  to  permit,  ceased  fur 
ther  inquiry,  and  let  out  to  Kim  in  thoughtful  silence  the 
whole  flow — rich,  and  strong,  and  full — of  her  sympathies. 

"I've  pretty  much  detei'mined,"  he  presently  began 
again,  changing  his  subject  somewhat,  "  to  try  a  new 
kind  of  business — for  the  sumnaer,  at  least ;  something 
that  will  give  me  greater  variety,  and  more  air,  and  new 
acquaintance.  I've  grown  tired  of  standing  so  in  one 
place  all  day,  and  looking  into  people's  faces  to  no  pur 
pose  ;  and  I  believe  it  makes  me  more  unhappy,  and  hate 
the  world  more  than  ever,  to  see  that  out  of  so  many 
great  currents  of  human  life,  so  very  few  have  even  a 
light  thought  for  me.  I  've  thought  the  matter  over 
with  myself  these  several  weeks ;  and  now  my  mind  is 
about  made  up.  I  hate  to  go  away  from  you,  Fanny,  for 
I  feel  that  you  're  the  only  friend  I  've  got  in  the  world  ; 
but  I  hope  the  time  won't  be  long  before  we  shall  be 
together  again*.  I  will  exert  myself  so  much  the  more  tc 
hasten  the  day  ;  and  meantime  I  shall  write  you." 

Fanny  could  not  have  been  more  surprised,  although, 
on  reflection,  she  applauded  sincerely  the  motive  that  in 
duced  him  to  enter  on  his  new  undertaking.  She  gave 


306  THE    BOOK    PEDDLER. 

utterance  to  many  exclamations,  and  asked  many  ques 
tions.  Of  course  she  was  deeply  interested  to  knOw  what 
his  new  business  was  to  be. 

"Traveling,"  said  he;,  "traveling  all  the  time!  I'm 
going  to  walk  away  from  the  world,  by  walking  through 
the  world.  I  'm  going  to  find  new  faces,  dear  Fanny ; 
perhaps  some  of  them  will  have  a  soft  look  for  me,  or  a 
pleasant  smile.  I  'm  going  to  enter  all  home-roofs,  and 
look  right  into  the  hearts  of  families  ;  to  see  what  others 
have  to  endure  as  well  as  myself,  and  how  they  can  be 
happy  in  spite  of  it  all !" 

She  thought  that  such  an  employment  as  this  would  be 
exceedingly  welcome  as  a  change,  to  a  heart  in  the  dis 
eased  condition  of  his ;  yet  she  could  not  quite  under 
stand  how  so  novel  an  occupation — if  such  it  might  be 
termed — was  to  furnish  him  with  the  means  of  livelihood. 
So  she  timidly  put  more  questions. 

"  I  '11  tell  you  the  whole  of  it,  Fanny,"  said  he,  as  if  he 
were  about  to  impart  her  some  great  secret :  "I've  got 
rid  of  my  stock  in  trade,  and  let  out  my  stall  at  the 
street-corner  to  another  person — all  for  the  cash  in  hand. 
To-morrow — yes,  just  as  soon  as  I  can  go  about  it — I  'm 
to  buy  a  basket-full  of  as  popular  books  as  I  can  find, 
and  strike  right  off  with  them  into  the  country  !  I  shall 
keep  traveling  till  I  sell  them ;  and  then  replenish  my 
stock.  There 's  my  plan,  Fanny !  Now  tell  me  how  you 
like  it." 

She  hesitated.  "Well  she  might ;  for  this  was  nothing 
less  than  a  proposal  to  quit  her  society  altogether,  and 
launch  himself  once  more  alone  upon  the  world.  Yet  she 
was  far  from  certain  that  this  was  not  the  best  thing  left 
for  him.  She  could  not  help  feeling  that  she  was  unable  to 
cope  with  so  terrible  and  so  stealthy  a  disease  as  seemed 
to  have  got  hold  of  his  heart ;  and,  even  at  a  sacrifice  to 


THE    BOOK     PEDDLEK.  307 

herself,  was  trying  to  become  perfectly  willing  to  consent 
to  the  separation. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  it,  Fanny  ?"  he*  asked  her  a 
second  time.  "  You  don't  tell  me." 

"  If  it  will  make  you  any  happier  than  you  are  here," 
she  answered,  thoughtfully,  "  I  shall  want  you  to  go.  Do 
you  think  it  will  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  oh,  yes,  Fanny.  Any  thing,  rather  than 
this  agony  all  the  day  long.  Any  thing,  so  that  I  may 
perhaps  find  faces  that  will  have  looks  of  sympathy  forme ! 
I  can  not  live  so,  long.  I  must  either  go  about  something 
new  or  give  up  altogether  !  I  must — I  must,  Fanny  !  I 
see  how  it  is  !  I  can  see  it  all  plain  enough  for  myself!" 

He  expressed  himself  with  such  passionate  fervor  that 
the  girl  was  quite  alarmed.  Indeed,  in  the  brief  space  of 
time  taken  up  with  this  quick  reply,  her  mind  had  imper 
ceptibly  given  up  its  secret  protests  and  its  lingering 
doubts,  and  she  at  once  assented  to  his  plan  with  all  earn 
estness.  It  was  plain  that  he  must  have  a  change,  and 
that  soon,  or  the  consequences  might  be  even  beyond 
what  she  dared  dream  of. 

So  on  the  morrow  he  began  his  walks  about  town  to 
the  several  bookstores  at  which  he  had  determined  to 
lay  in  his  supplies  ;  and  making  such  selections  as  he 
thought  would  avail  him  most  and  soonest,  packed  them 
away  snugly  in  his  basket — the  same  in  which  he  had  car 
ried  his  fruit  before  them — and  returned  to  Fanny  to  as 
sort  and  arrange  his  little  stores  over  again. 

The  poor  girl's  eyes  opened  the  wider  as  they  ran  over 
the  gilded  backs  and  inviting  titles ;  and  throwing  aside 
her  work,  and  diving  in  eagerly  among  the  leaves,  she 
appeared  to  have  suddenly  become  a  creature  of  another 
world.  The  old  man  sat  and  watched  her  with  indescrib 
able  interest. 


308  THE    BOOK    PBDDLEK. 

"  If  every  body  else  is  only  as  much  taken  up  with  my 
books  as  you  are,"  saidjie,  "I  sha'n't  be  afraid  of  going 
to  the  poor-house  very  soon  !" 

All  things  being  duly  got  in  readiness,  the  several 
volumes  of  the  basket-library  having  been  arranged  and 
re-arranged  for  at  least  the  fiftieth  time,  and  always  with 
the  closest  eye  to  effect,  the  peddler  took  young  Fanny's 
hand  in  his,  evidently  prepared  to  make  her  a  long  speech 
on  taking  his  leave ;  but  when  he  saw  her  eyes  trying  to 
look  through  the  films  of  their  tears  into  his  face,  his 
throat  swelled,  his  articulation  choked,  and  he  could  only 
press  her  hand  affectionately,  and  uttej,  in  a  half  whisper, 
hoarse  and  low — "  God  bless  you,  dear  Fanny  !  Don't 
forget  me,  will  you  ?" 

She  answered  not.  She  could  not  speak.  And  while 
she  gazed  silently  after  him,  he  was  gone.  Such  was 
their  leave-taking  ;  an  occasion  on  which  each  had  re 
solved  to  talk  by  the  half-hour  to  the  other,  whereas  only 
one,  and  he  with  difficulty,  could  utter  a  word. 

First  of  all,  he  wended  his  way  to  a  railway  station ; 
and  purchasing  a  cheap  ticket  for  a  distant  village,  took 
his  seat  in  the  car  denominated  the  "  second-class ;"  al 
beit  there  is  no  kind  of  question  that  first-class  people 
may  often  ride  in  them — and  was  shortly  wheeling  across 
the  country  at  a  rate  that  but  a  little  while  ago  would 
have  been  deemed  fabulous. 

In  the  same  car  with  him  were  a  couple  of  Irish  fami 
lies,  just  arrived,  who  were  on  their  swift  way  to  some  dim 
and  unlocated  western  home — -just  across  the  prairies,  or 
just  over  the  mountains ;  three  laboring  men,  two  of 
whom  were  trying  to  answer  the  questions  of  the  third  as 
fast  as  he  put  them ;  and  a  poor  woman,  alone.  The  ped 
dler  had  his  thoughts  as  well  as  those  in  the  higher-priced 
cars  behind  him ;  and  while  he  sat  on  the  hard  bench, 


THE    BOOK    PEDDLEB.  305) 

leaning  his  arm  over  the  back  of  the  seat,  and  gazing  at 
the  flying  objects  out  of  the  window,  his  mind  went  back 
— back — back ;  the  old  time  slipped  forward  to  his  eyes, 
with  its  freshness  and  hope  ;  the  troubles  were  gone  ;  the 
trials,  the  temptations,  the  whole  ; — he  was  living  in  the 
golden  mist  that  early  memory — the  memory  of  the  boy 
— was  weaving. 

By  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  he  was  set  down  at  his 
place  of  destination  ;  and  hardly  had  he  put  foot  upon  the 
long  platform,  and  turned  about  to  look  closer  at  the  swift 
train  that  brought  him  there,  when  every  thing — cars,  en 
gine,  people,  and  all — was  a  dark  speck  scarcely  to  be 
distinguished  in  the  distance.  Half  dizzy  with  the  sud 
denness  of  the  change,  he  took  up  his  basket  and  moved 
along  slowly  through  the  village. 

For  the  rest  of  that  day  he  had  much  more  good  for 
tune  than  he  had  dared  to  expect.  At  the  first  place  at 
which  he  called  he  sold  nothing,  it  is  true  ;  but  then  he 
felt  quite  as  well  as  if  he  had,  from  seeing  the  eagerness 
with  which  they  crowded  around  his  peripatetic  library, 
and  fell  to  an  examination  of  his  several  books.  At  the 
next  he  disposed  of  one  volume ;  and  he  was  as  much 
gratified,  perhaps,  as  disappointed,  in  knowing  that  if  he 
had  happened  to  bring  certain  other  books  he  could  read 
ily  have  disposed  of  two  more.  He  slept  in  the  village 
that  night,  and  early  in  the  morning  took  his  way  over  a 
country  road  into  the  inner  domains  of  rural  life. 

His  walk  took  him  across  rough  and  little-traveled 
highways,  and  down  narrow  and  grassy  lanes ;  and  past 
little  clusters  of  manufactories,  settled  down  in  shaded 
valleys,  and  spacious  and  pretensions  farm-houses,  lording 
it  over  broad  acres  of  grass  and  corn.  Wherever  outside 
appearances  seemed  to  invite  him,  he  went  in ;  setting 
forth  the  quantity  and  character  of  his  works  to  the  lis- 


310  THE    BOOK    PEDDLER. 

tening  inmates  in  the  most  intense  and  glowing  language 
he  could  command,  and  frequently  calling  their  attention 
earnestly  to  some  particular  volume,  assuring  them  that 
it  was  just  such  a  book  as  they  needed,  and  should  be 
found  lying  on  every  table. 

Some  of  the  rustic  population  were  very  willing  to  read 
his  books,  and  soon  became  absorbed  in  them  ;  but  as 
waiting  to  allow  others  time  to  read  was  hardly  turning 
fair  opportunities  to  his  own  account,  he  soon  managed  to 
bring  such  experiments  to  a  crisis;  and  the  manner  of  his 
doing  it  was  so  much  in  keeping  with  the  thrifty  charac 
ter  of  a  genuine  New  England  Yankee,  that  he  rarely 
failed  of  the  object  at  which  he  aimed.  For  the  privilege 
of  reading  a  certain  time  in  any  of  his  books  he  would 
propose  to  exact  the  corresponding  privilege  of  a  little 
rest  for  his  feet  and  food  for  his  stomach  ;  or  if  it  chanced 
that  night  was  coming  on,  he  would  offer  the  same  op 
portunities  for  reading  in  return  for  a  lodging  and  a 
breakfast  in  the  morning.  Where  there  were  families  of 
children,  whose  thirst  for  reading  was  just  making  itself 
felt  upon  the  mind  with  its  gnawing  sensations — perhaps 
never  through  a  long  life  of  anxiety  and  busy  care  to  be 
entirely  satisfied — he  found  little  difficulty  in  compassing 
his  design  ;  and  the  result  was,  that  the  further  he  got 
into  the  great  country,  the  better  he  found  his  condition, 
both  pecuniary  and  physical. 

His  spirits  were  slowly  undergoing  a  beneficial  change. 
He  could  feel  that  they  were.  He  had  none  of  that  old 
fear  that  brooded  continually  upon  him  like  a  nightmare. 
His  step  grew  lighter  and  lighter  the  further  he  walked. 
A  conviction  possessed  him  that  he  had  turned  his  back 
forever  on  all  that  was  distressful  to  his  feelings,  and  that 
he  need  not  any  longer  walk  in  doubt.  His  eyes  did  not 
now  all  the  time  seek  the  ground.  They  studied  the 


THE    BOOK    PEDDLER.  311 

silent  landscapes  through  which  he  went,  and  dreamed  in 
the  blue  deeps  of  the  rounded  sky ;  and  sought  out  beauty 
wherever  it  dwelt — in  its  homes  by  winding  streams,  or 
in  little  crypts  of  darkling  valleys,  or  across  rolling  plains 
in  the  mazes  of  vast  woods.  He  labored  to  throw  off  the 
whole  memory  of  his  former  life,  and  strove,  as  few  men 
can  strive,  to  look  forward  to  the  future.  He  struggled 
valiantly  to  break  through  the  mesh  of  his  olden  thoughts, 
hoping  to  find  a  something  his  heart  most  needed  in  the 
experience  of  the  new. 

And  thus  day  after  day  went  by  with  him,  each  one 
bringing  brighter  skies  than  its  predecessor.  He  traveled 
on  through  village  after  village,  and  town  after  town, 
always  selling  something,  and  making  his  labor  profitable. 
Hope  was  in  his  heart  now — and  that  was  something. 

One  evening  he  reached  Draggledew  Plain.  The  little 
hamlet  burst  upon  his  sight  almost  without  warning.  It 
was  just  at  the  going  down  of  the  sun,  and  exactly  at  the 
hour  when  he  was  wondering  if  he  should  find  a  good 
spot  in  which  to  quarter  for  the  night.  There  was  the 
old  tavern,  with  its  swinging  sign  supported  by  tall  posts 
before  the  door.  There  was  Hector  Hedge  himself,  the 
landlord,  his  shirt  sleeves  rolled  up,  and  his  hands  braced, 
against  the  sides  of  the  door  above  his  head.  And  there 
stood  the  pleasant  little  church,  its  spire  pointing  silently 
above  the  elms  to  the  heavens,  penciled  with  the  delicacy 
of  fancy  against  the  glowing  sky  of  evening. 

Walking  up  to  the  tavern-door,  he  found  that  he  could 
readily  obtain  lodgings  there,  although  Hector  Hedge 
was  a  man  that  was  satisfied  with  no  slight  or  superficial 
survey  of  the  customers  he  honored  with  his  service. 
Did  they  want  books  there  ?  he,  or  his  wife,  or  his  chil 
dren  ?  That  made  old  Hedge  smile.  Books  ?  what 
were  books  good  for  but  to  throw  away  a  man's  money 


312  THE    BOOK    PEDDLEK. 

on,  and  give  to  the  mice  that  liked  the  paste  in  their 
bindings  ?  His  children  had  their  school-books ;  what 
need  of  more  ?  He  was  sure  they  used  them  up  fast 
enough  ;  faster  than  he  could  afford  to  pay  for  them  ! 

But  the  peddler  was  persevering.  Children  are  not  to 
be  curbed  with  nothing  but  a  tyrannic  command.  Be 
fore  the  evening  was  well  through  he  had  completed  a 
contract  with  the  still  resisting  landlord,  by  the  terms  of 
which  one  half  the  charge  was  to  be  deducted  from  his 
board-bill,  on  condition  that  the  children  be  permitted  to 
read  all  they  wanted!  This — thought  Hector — was  at 
least  cheaper  than  paying  money  out  of  pocket  for  books 
that  would  be  flung  aside  as  useless  in  the  end.  Mr. 
Hedge  is  not  alone,  by  any  means,  in  his  way  of  thinking. 

Early  the  next  morning  the  traveler  began  his  rounds 
through  the  village ;  and  having  completed  them  with  as 
little  success  as  he  could  have  feared,  started  off  bravely 
again  for  the  open  roads  and  the  broad  country .- 

The  very  first  house  he  came  to  happened  to  be  that 
of  Mr.  Holliday.  The  honest  housekeeper's  eyes  glistened 
at  sight  of  his  baskets  of  books,  and  she  regretted  over 
and  over  again  that  Mr.  Holliday  was  not  at  home  ;  "He 's 
a  great  hand  for  books,"  said  she,  "and  writes  'em  himself, 
too  !  You  'd  sell  some  to  him,  sir,  I  know  you  would !" 

Could  she  tell  where  he  had  gone  ?  No,  she  could  n't 
exactly ;  but  it  was  out  to  walk  somewhere.  "  Mebbe 
you  '11  meet  him  along  on  the  road,  sir !  He  went  over 
that  way,"  waving  her  hand. 

He  walked  and  walked  on.  The  sun  was  high  in  the 
heavens,  and  it  was  sultry.  Climbing  toilingly  up  the 
hill,  the  delightful  residence  of  Mr.  Rivers  met  his  vision. 
He  could  hardly  help  pausing  to  admire  the  pretty  pic 
ture  it  offered  him.  Placed  among  the  trees  and  shrub 
bery  it  looked  more  like  some  little  rustic  arbor  than  a 


THE     COOK    PEDDLER.  313 

house  for  people  to  live  in,  aud  only  as  such  a  picture  it 
seemed  to  possess  his  mind. 

As  he  came  up  the  road  and  studied  the  peculiarities 
of  the  place  more  closely,  he  discovered  that  upon  the 
piazza  were  sitting  a  couple  of  young  ladies  Avith  a  gentle 
man  companion.  The  latter  was  Mr.  Holliday.  First  he 
hesitated ;  then  he  halted ;  then  he  started  on ;  and 
finally  stopped  again.  But  observing  that  they  had  been 
quick  witnesses  of  his  vacillating  conduct,  he  determined 
to  destroy  all  unfavorable  impressions  that  "they  might 
have  formed,  by  opening  the  little  wicket  and  going 
straight  up  to  them.  With  a  respectful  bow,  therefore, 
he  held  out  his  basket,  and  asked  them  if  they  would 
like  to  look  at  what  he  had  to  sell. 

"  Oh,  books,  Mary !"  exclaimed  Martha,  making  as  if 
to  take  them  ah1  into  her  lap  at  once.  "  New  books ! 
What  a  treat !" 

Mary  was  looking  them  over,  and  so  was  Mr.  Holliday. 

"  And  I  declare  !"  again  exclaimed  the  fully  awakened 
Martha,  "  if  here  is  n't  a  volume  I  happen  to  own  my 
self!  Well  done,  Mary  !  Just  look  here  !" 

"  What  is  it  you  've  got  ?  Let 's  see  if  it 's  worth 
making  such  a  fuss  over,"  answered  her  sister. 

The  other  held  it  up  so  that  she  could  read  the  title  on 
the  back.  "  Marrymust  Bridge !"  said  she  ;  and  glanced 
at  Mr.  Holliday,  and  blushed. 

"  That 's  quite  a  popular  book,"  suggested  the  peddler. 
"  I  have  sold  quite  a  number  of  them  since  I  started." 

The  girls  smiled,  and  Mr.  Holliday  said  "Urn!"  and 
smiled  too. 

"  I  don't  think  we  shall  want  anymore  copies  of  that," 
said  Mr.  Holliday,  turning  over  the  assortment  Avith  the 
hand  of  one  who  knew  the  Avay  to  what  he  wanted  ;  "but 
here  are  two  or  three  others  that  I  think  I  might  as  Avell 

H 


314  .  THE    BOOK    PEDDLER. 

,  \ 

have.  I  've  been  waiting  for  thorn  till  I  could  go  to 
town  myself;  but  as  long  as  they  are  here,  right  at  the 
door,  I  'd  as  lief  have  them  now  as  to  wait."  And  the 
eyes  of  the  young  author  went  searchingly  through  the 
pages  of  the  volumes  he  fished  up  from  the  depths  of  the 
basket. 

Martha's  sympathetic  eye  discovered  that  the  poor  man 
was  tired,  and  that  his  heart,  through  his  face,  told  a  sad 
and  long  tale  of  anxiety.  She  asked  him  if  he  would  not 
sit  down ;  to  which  invitation  he  responded  by  taking  a 
seat  upon  the  step  of  the  piazza.  Then  thoughtfully  in 
quiring  if  he  would  like  some  cool  and  fresh  water,  she 
hurried  to  draw  a  pitcher  full  from  the  pump  on  the  back 
porch. 

The  traveler  took  off  his  straw  hat,  and  seemed  to  en 
joy  with  a  keen  relish  the  cool  air  of  the  place.  His 
mind  was  on  his  business  chiefly,  however,  and  he  gazed 
into  the  handsome  faces  of  the  girls  while  he  talked 
and  talked  away  in  behalf  of  his  books.  Mr.  Holliday 
bought  three  and  paid  him  for  them.  As  much  to  en 
courage  him  as  with  any  other  design,  each  of  the  sis 
ters  purchased  a  volume,  and  sat  a  few  moments  running 
them  over. 

All  had  been  gathered  properly  into  the  basket  once 
more,  and  the  traveling  merchant  was  making  ready  to 
depart;  he  was,  in  fact,  right  in  the  act  of  thanking  his 
friends  for  their  kind  patronage,  when  a  step  was  heard 
across  the  floor,  and  Mr.  Rivers  made  his  appearance. 

The  stranger  rose  to  his  feet  as  with  a  bound.  The 
eyes  of  the  two  met.  Their  looks  were  fixed  and  deeply 
searching.  Mr.  Rivers  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  floor, 
neither  did  the  other  for  a  moment  move  from  his  tracks. 
By  degrees  the  rest  looked  up  and  saw  what  was  the  state 
of  things,  and  in  their  turn  were  silent  with  astonishment. 


THE    BOOK    PEDDLEE.  315 

"Great  Heaven  !"  was  the  low  ejaculation  that  seemed 
pressed  out  of  the  stranger's  heart. 

•Still  no  syllable  passed  Mr.  Rivers's  lips,  and  still  the 
others  spake  not.  But  the  eyes  of  the  former  were  fast 
ened  upon  the  face  of  the  intruder  .with  an  expression 
that  combined  both  curiosity  and  sympathy.  It  was  not 
a  harsh  look ;  it  rather  suggested  deep  compassion,  yet  a 
compassion  wonderfully  threaded  and  perplexed  with 
doubt. 

Only  for  a  minute  or  two  did  the  stranger  remain  in 
his  position,  and  then  turned  away  muttering  undistin- 
guishable  syllables,  and  looking  as  if  in  dumb  supplication 
upward  to  the  sky.  He  walked  down  the  path  again, 
and  immediately  disappeared  on  the  country  road.  As 
soon  as  he  was  out  of  sight,  the  sisters  instinctively 
turned  to  their  father,  to  seek  explanation  of  such  strange 
conduct ;  but  instead  of  having  their  curiosity  gratified, 
their  wonder  only  became  the  greater  by  the  discovery 
that  their  father  had  suddenly  moved  oif  into  the  house. 

All  three  looked  at  each  other  inquiringly,  each  one 
involved  in  the  same  perplexity ;  but  they  asked  no  ques 
tions.  They  werfe  silent,  and  silently  they  nursed  their 
wonder. 

And  off  over  the  still  and  lonely  roads  went  the  book- 
merchant  again,  the  old  cloud  hanging  over  him  darker 
than  ever,  and  the  old  shadow  still  flocking  up  his  path. 
He  walked  he  knew  not  how  fast.  It  was  no  matter  to 
him  now  whither  he  went ;  he  had  as  lief  turn  back  to  the 
close  city  as  to  push  on  through  the  open  country.  He 
felt  that  he  was  branded  with  a  curse.  He  thought 
there  could  no  where  be  escape  to  him  from  his  doom. 
He  was  almost  tempted  to  fold  his  arms,  and  await  now 
the  very  worst  that  could  come,  without  an  effort  to  es 
cape  from  any  thing. 


316  THEBOOKPEDDLEK. 

The  girls  sought  to  learn  of  their  father,  after  Mr. 
Holliday  had  gone,  what  it  was  that  caused  such  a  marked 
change  in  the  man's  demeanor,  satisfied  that  he  could  tell 
them  all  they  wished  to  know.  But  he  received  their 
inquiries  with  a  shake  of  the  head,  merely  saying : 

"  It 's  nothing  that  you  need  know,  my  daughters. 
It 's  all  gone  by  now.  I  won't  rake  it  over  again.  The 
man  has  apparently  suffered  enough  already !  I  pity 
him !  Let  him  go  !" 


I 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

A   LOVEK'S   KNOT. 

THEY  had  been  running  about  the  grounds  of  Mr. 
Rivera's  little  elysium — Martha  and  Mr.  Holliday — pluck 
ing  here  and  there  a  flower  or  two  that  was  still  left  in 
blossom,  and  weaving  them  into  a  wreath  with  the  myrtle 
leaves  that  grew  luxuriantly  beneath  a  sober  spruce-tree, 
suffering  the  current  of  their  conversation  to  run  whither 
their  feelings  or  fancies  led  them  along.  It  was  a  pleasant 
afternoon  in  the  late  summer,  full  of  the  slowly  ripening 
glories  of  the  season.  In  the  brilliant  sky  burned  the 
most  gorgeous  colors  that  the  summer  had  by  the  al 
chemy  of  its  furnace  produced.  In  the  air  slept  a  calm 
and  half  sensuous  feeling  of  delight,  that  brooded  on  the 
stilled  spirits  so  quietly  that  it  was  as  if  they  never  had 
known,  and  never  would  know  the  suffering  of  unrest. 
The  glory  filled  the  heart  as  it  filled  the  sky. 

By  slow  and  circuitous  routes  they  reached  at  length 
the  entrance  of  a  little  rustic  temple,  that  had  been 
erected  late  in  the  spring,  and  over  which  a  pair  of 
climbing  roses  had  ever  since  been  laboring  ambitiously 
to  throw  a  light  cloak  of  flowers  and  leaves.  Woodbines 
that  had  likewise  been  set  out  at  the  foot  of  each  of  the 
posts  at  the  entrance,  were  slowly  shadowing  the  lattice, 
and  dotting  the  wooden  seats  with  the  many  versiformed 
figures  and  patches  that  the  sun  sifted  through  their 


318  A  LOVER'S  KNOT. 

exuberant  foliage.  They  were  talking  of  books  and 
authors ;  and  expressing  their  preferences  for  such  of 
both  as  betrayed  the  broad  and  deep  love  for  nature, 
which  alone  gave  the  true  tone  of  healthiness  and  delight. 

Martha  was  a  sketcher  from  nature  herself.  She  looked 
at  landscapes  with  an  artist's,  and  therefore  with  a  lover's, 
eye.  And  as  she  received  such  a  secret  pleasure  from 
their  reproduction  with  the  pencil,  she  affirmed  that  she 
hardly  enjoyed  them  less  when  painted  with  the  artful 
skill  of  description.  A  book  with  a  thread  of  nature 
winding  through  its  attractive  pages,  like  a  brook  dancing 
down  a  meadow-land,  showed  soul,  and  sympathy,  and 
reach  of  power  that  lay  not  altogether  upon  the  surface. 
With  such,  and  with  such  only,  she  enjoyed  a  close  and 
extended  companionship. 

And  in  this  kind  of  talk,  suffering  the  calm  moments  to 
slip  by,  their  sympathies  mutually  enkindling  to  a  more 
noticeable  extent  than  ever  before,  Martha  stepped  within 
the  little  arbor  without  a  thought,  and  sat  down  upon 
the  bench. 

"  How  delightful  it  is  here !"  she  exclaimed,  gazing  out 
through  the  leafy  screen.  "  In  one  summer  more,  now, 
this  shade  will  be  much  denser ;  and  then  we  shall  have 
an  out-door  palace  indeed !  Won't  you  come  into  my 
reception-room,  Mr.  Holliday  ?  Really,  you  don't  know 
what  beautiful  tints  I  get  here !  They  are  almost  as 
softly  toned  as  if  they  came  through  high  windows,  all 
arched  and  stained !" 

The  young  man,  who  stood  at  the  entrance  looking  in, 
questioned  himself  to  know  if  this  could  be  more  than  a 
pictured  dream.  In  the  balloonings  of  his  fancies  during 
sleep,  he  could  just  dimly  and  duskily  remember  that  he 
had  been  admitted  to  glancing  visions  of  which  this  one 
seemed  a  copy.  His  thoughts,  as  they  ran  nimbly  back 


A    LOVEK'S    KNOT.  319 

throwing  their  flowery  girdle  about  his  experiences,  could 
just  place  before  him  again  some  sweet  picture,  that  had 
almost  faded  already,  but  now  lived  and  mingled  its  sunny 
rays  in  with  the  more  somber  hues  of  his  existence. 

It  was  a  dreamy  vision,  and  peculiarly  beautiful.  What 
with  the  full  foliaged  boughs  overhead,  that  shed  broad 
shadows  down  through  the  pagoda-like  roof  of  the  little 
arbor,  and  the  closer-growing  green  of  the  vines  that  em 
braced  it  on  all  sides  as  in  love — a  shade  was  produced 
within,  in  the  softened  light  of  which  the  face  and  figure 
of  the  young  girl  became  almost  ethereal.  She  did  not 
seem  altogether  of  flesh  and  blood,  nor  yet  altogether  an 
gelic  ;  yet  like  a  vision — part  reality,  and  part  a  delicious 
illusion — she  seemed  swimming  in  the  airy  and  evan 
escent  atmosphere  of  her  own  radiance,  charming  and  her 
self  charmed.  And  to  fix  this  momentary  impression, 
and  to  make  it,  for  ever  so  swift  a  moment,  an  outstanding 
reality,  around  which  nevertheless  still  floated  the  cloud- 
gauziness  of  a  chastened  summer  afternoon  ecstasy — the 
light  dawned  meltingly  through  the  lattice-work  over  her 
radiant  face,  toning  itself  down  exactly  to  that  point  at 
which  it  might  create  a  beautiful  fancy,  yet  admit  a  re 
ality  of  life. 

Mr.  Holliday  crossed  the  threshold,  and  sat  down  on 
the  same  bench  that  she  occupied.  Placing  his  hat  be 
side  him,  he  suffered  the  tremulous  waves  of  air  to  rill 
across  his  forehead,  while  his  heart  confessed  to  a  sense 
of  being  purely  refreshed.  Martha  continued  dallying 
with  the  little  wreath  of  myrtle  and  flowers,  resetting 
the  latter, v and  now  and  then  arranging  the  leaves  over 
again. 

"  I  wonder  Mary  does  n't  enjoy  coming  here  as  much 
as  I  do,"  said  she,  for  the  first  time  sensible  of  being 
slightly  embarrassed  by.  her  new  situation. 


320  A   LOVER'S  KNOT. 

"Your  tastes  are  unlike,"  suggested  her  companion. 
"  I  could  hardly  find  those  that  were  more  so,  especially 
about  natural  objects  of  beauty." 

"  And  yet,"  put  in  Martha  in  extenuation,  "  Mary  has 
changed  very  much  since  we  first  came  from  town  out 
here.  What  was  at  first  not  endurable  at  all  she  now 
manages  to  get  along  with  quite  tolerably.  Indeed,  I 
have  hopes  of  her !" 

"What  should  make  such  a  difference?"  he  asked. 
"  You  were  both  born  in  the  city,  and  have  been  accus 
tomed  to  nothing  but  city  modes  of  life  till  now." 

"  But  even  before  we  moved  here,"  interrupted  she,  "  I 
remember  very  well  that  I  had  longings — oh,  such,  inde 
scribable  longings,  sometimes !" 

"  For  the  country  ?  For  such  a  life  as  this — so  caan 
and  so  placid  through  all  the  seasons  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes — for  nature  ;  for  beauty !  I  craved  a  sym 
pathy  that  feels  its  way  out  from  beneath  the  surface  of 
things!  I  know  that  nature  is  dumb;  but^she  has  lan 
guage  for  such  of  her  children  as  can  listen  with  child-like 
souls.  I  can  not  help  feeling  pity  for  the  ignorance  in 
which  they  who  affect  a  feeling  above  the  inanimate 
world  are  willing  to  grope  and  grovel.  How  little  they 
still  know,  and  only  because  they  will  not  lift  their  heads 
above  these  fogs  of  our  artificial  life  !" 

"  Fogs  indeed  !"  returned  her  companion.  "  But  I 
think  I  see  abundant  signs  of  a  healthy  change  in  the 
feelings  of  your  sister,  myself.  The  truth  is,  one  can  not 
always  successfully  resist  these  mute  appeals  of  our  com 
mon  mother.  They  are  not  mute,  either.  They  are  full 
of  the  most  glorious  eloquence — of  the  most  stirring 
pathos.  They  move  us  deeper  than  to  mere  smiles  or 
tears.  If  a  person  is  still  unacquainted  with  the  heart  of 
nature,  his  life  is  yet  to  be  begun.  He  has  not  so  much 


A   LOVER'S   KNOT.  321 

as  learned  the  alphabet  by  which  he  is  to  know  his  own 
emotions.  But  let  me  tell  you,  Miss  Martha,"  he  contin 
ued,  perhaps  changing  his  tone  as  she  slightly  changed 
her  color,  "  that  it  was  this  very  same  universal  love  for 
what  I  have  ever  loved  so  truly  myself  that  particularly 
interested  me  in  you.  I  thought  from  the  first  that  I  had 
found  in  your  heart  a  deep  well  of  sympathy.  Since 
then  my  early  convictions  have  controlled  me." 

Martha's  eyes  ceased  to  wander  away  through,  the 
diamonded  lattice,  but  fell  slowly  to  the  flower-wj  eath 
she  held  in  her  hands. 

The  hour  was  so  quiet,  and  the  spirit  of  the  hrur  so 
genial,  and  the  rich  impulse  of  the  young  man's  heart 
went  bounding  along  so  pleasantly  to  his  brain,  ir  aking 
the  moment  one  of  such  complete  happiness — that>  with 
out  forethought,  and  before  he  could  discipline  hiy  quiver 
ing  lips  to  the  syllables  that  were  crowding  t.>  their 
threshold  for  expression,  he  spoke  to  the  one  vho  sat 
next  him  as  he  had  never,  never  spoken  before  to  living 
soul. 

"  I  have  long  hungered  for  the  sympathy  that  I  hope  I 
have  at  last  found  in  you,"  he  said.  "  My  life  has  been 
more  or  less  lonely,  and  is  so  still.  Few  hearts  there  were 
that  beat  to  extend  me  any  of  their  wealth ;  and  till  I  saw 
you  I  felt  alone.  But  your  face  kindled  an  emotion  that 
never  controlled  me  before.  I  knew  I  could  read  in  it  the 
secret  of  all  the  mysteries  my  heart  had  ever  Lnown.  It 
dissolved  the  barriers  I  had  raised  about  me  £t  once.  I 
lived  on,  and  hope  grew.  The  feeling  you  Lad  excited 
seemed  to  renovate  my  whole  nature — to  mak  3  me  a  new 
creature.  I  could  not  say  that  the  germ  of  it  was  not 
within  me  before,  waiting  for  an  atmosphere  in  which  it 
might  grow ;  but  never,  never  had  I  felt  the  power  of  the 
feeling  till  then.  I  tried  to  outroot  it,  thinking  I  might 
14* 


322  A  LOVER'S  KNOT. 

unconsciously  be  misled  of  it.  I  tried  to  persuade  myself 
that  k  was  nothing  more  than  a  momentary  influence  that 
would  pass  away  as  my  heart  sobered  itself.  I  sought 
solitude  ;  but  that  made  the  matter  worse.  I  plunged 
deeper  into  study,  and  labored  to  correct  what  I  feared 
might  be  nothing  but  an  error  leading  me  astray.  But  I 
could  not  labor  as  I  once  did.  My  thoughts  did  not 
seem  at  all  to  be  my  own  thoughts.  Nothing  that  I  once 
possessed — time,  inclination,  emotions — nothing  was  any 
longer  my  own." 

Now  Martha  was  busily  picking  the  little  green  wreath 
in  her  lap  to  pieces.  Her  face  was  strangely  flushed,  and 
its  expression  surpassingly  sweet  and  beautiful.  But  not  a 
word  passed  her  lips.  In  eloquent  silence  she  sat  there  in 
the  rustic  temple  in  the  garden,  and  listened  to  this  earn 
est  and  burning  confession  of  her  companion. 

"  Many  and  many  a  time,"  he  continued,  "  have  I  de 
termined  to  tell  you  all  that  so  filled  my  heart ;  and  as 
many  times  have  I  buried  the  secret,  with  a  strong  effort, 
down  in  my  own  bosom  again.  But  it  would  not  stay 
buried  there.  It  has  sought  to  control  me,  and  it  has 
controlled  me.  It  masters  me  even  now.  I  can  not  keep 
it  from  you  longer  ;  I  should  be  dealing  untruly  not  less 
with  yourself  than  with  my  own  nature,  did  I  seek  to 
conceal  what  will  not  be  concealed.  If  you  will  not  turn 
a  deaf  ear  yet  to  me — if  you  will  consent  to  feed  ever  so 
little  the  sympathy  that  is  consuming  my  soul,  unfed — 
oh,  if  you  will  but  receive  the  sincerest  profession  my 
heart  ever,  ever  made — believe  that  I  love  you  truly — 
believe  that  my  soul  has  imperceptibly  been  knit  to 
yours,  till  it  now  yearns  to  it  as  to  its  own  living  mate  ! 
Tell  me  if  only  any  part  of  this  feeling  of  mine  finds  an 
answer  in  your  heart !  Give  me  hope — only  a  faint  hope 
— that  you  will  in  even  a  small  degree  receive  the  pro- 


A  LOVER'S   KNOT.  323 

fessions  I  have  made  with  the  feeling  in  which  they  are 
made !  And,  dear  Martha" — she  had  suffered  him  gently 
to  take  one  of  her  hands  between  both  his  own — "  may  I 
ask  to  hear  from  your  own  lips  such  syllables  as  will  en 
courage  me  my  whole  life  through !  Tell  me  if  I  can  oc 
cupy  that  place  in  your  heart  that  you  do  in  mine  !  Let 
me  be  assured  this'  very  day  of  my  happiness,  if  such  hap 
piness  is  in  store  for  me !  Martha,  shall  you  utterly  refuse 
me?  Shall  I  be  sent  away  empty?  Will  you  give  me 
just  one  word — one  single  word  of  encouragement — that 
the  sun  may  shine  as  brightly  for  me  as  it  has  not  shone 
since  my  earliest  childhood  ? — that  the  world  may  look  as 
fair  as  it  can  look  only  to  those  whose  souls  are  brimming 
with  hope  ? — that  my  future  life  may  have  its  heaven 
tinted  with  the  glowing  colors  of  love,  rather  than  shaded 
with  the  clouds  of  disappointment  and  desolate  solitude  ? 
Will  you  encourage  me,  dear  Martha,  with  one  little 
word  ?  May  I  dare  hope  that  you  ever  can,  ever  will 
offer  me  your  love  in  return  ?" 

He  was  silent  a  moment,  and  but  for  a  moment.  Mar 
tha  Rivers  was  a  girl  of  too  excellent  sense  and  of  a  much 
too  highly  cultivated  heart  to  allow  herself  to  treat  such 
professions  insincerely,  or  to  trifle  in  the  least  Avith  the 
feelings  of  which  they  Avere  begotten.  Gathering  cour 
age,  therefore — AA'hile  the  beautiful  color  in  her  cheeks  and 
over  her  forehead  deepened  perceptibly — she  threAV  her 
eyes  out  of  the  opposite  lattice,  and  answered  him : 

"  I  Avill  be  frank  with  you,  Mr.  Holliday.  I  can  not  be 
otherwise  if  I  would.  The  preference  you  ha\7e  this  mo 
ment  expressed  for  me,  I  do  not  think  it  conceit  in  me  at 
ah1  to  say,  I  have  observed  for  a  considerable  time.  It 
could  not  readily  have  escaped  me.  And  the  sympathy 
you  crave — yes,  yes,  you  have  it ;  you  do  have  it." 

"  Do  I  have  more  ? — more  than  sympathy  ?      Do  I 


324  A    LOV  Ell'S    KNOT. 

merit  such  a  gift  as  your  love  ?"  he  asked  rapidly,  stih 
holding  her  hand  in  his  own.  "  "Will  you  tell  me  that,  be 
fore  I  go  away  from  this  spot  ?  Will  you  even  make  this 
place  sacred  in  my  eyes  forever,  by  the  confession  I  ana 
dying  to  hear  your  lips  speak  ?  Will  you  ?  Will  you, 
dear  Martha  ?" 

She  was  going  to  say  more,  but  she  felt  that  her  lips  fal 
tered  and  trembled.  She  had  not  the  command  of  them 
that  was  hers  but  a  moment  ago.  All  she  could  whisper 
to  his  quick  questions  was  summed  up  in  the  few  syllables 
— "  I  will !  Yes,  I  do  !» 

Enough  for  lover  as  earnest  as  young  Mr.  Holliday. 
His  eyes  gazed  rapturously  on  her  speaking  face,  as  if  he 
could  scarcely  realize  what  he  saw.  His  pulses  throbbed 
with  a  quick  and  stirring  impetuousness.  A  thrilliflg  sen 
sation  shot  through  all  his  veins,  as  he  tried  to  feel,  and 
to  bo  conscious  of  the  feeling,  that  he  Avas  supremely 
happy.  But  if  he  were  abundantly  assured  of  the  truth 
that  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  now  dawned  on  him,  the 
conviction  was  a  something  too  subtle  for  analysis,  and 
only  bright  enough  for  a  blissful  dream.  In  the  unspeak 
able  emotions  of  the  moment  his  soul  reveled  without 
hinderauce.  Nothing  but  light  flooded  his  sky.  Nothing 
but  golden  colors  lengthened  and  spread  away  in  the 
boundless  azure  of  his  future.  Could  mortal  ask  for  more  ? 

When  they  finally  left  that  charming  retreat,  thus 
made  memorable  to  both  through  a  whole  lifetime,  their 
spirits  were  calm  to .  an  extent  that  neither  had  ever 
known.  The  sun  shone  more  bright  in  the  heavens. 
The  air  was  bland  as  the  enchantment  of  a  drearn. 
Every  sight,  every  odor,  every  sound,  carried  a  secret 
delight  to  their  senses.  They  were  walking  circuitously 
again  toward  the  house ;  but  they  walked,  in  their  fan 
cies,  through  paths  that  wound  round  among  banks  of 


A   LOVER'S  KNOT.  325 

ever-blooming  flowers,  and  that  skirted  lakes  upon  whose 
silver  surfaces  the  exuberant  foliage  threw  down  only 
golden  shadows.  If  heaven  ever  lives  here  for  the  brief 
est  moment  in  poor  human  hearts,  it  surely  took  now 
entire  possession  of  theirs.  Oh,  the  indiscribable  and 
never-repeated  bliss  that  broods  in  the  lap  of  the  first 
love.  Never  again  in  the  checkered  after-life  may  it  re 
turn,  for  never  then  are  the  feelings  fresh  with  the  dew 
of  hope,  and  never  mono  does  the  exulting  heart  so  bound 
forward  over  the  long  reaches  of  an  experience  that  is 
then  all,  all  unknown  ! 

They  came  to  the  end  of  a  little  walk,  and  encountered 
the  paling.  As  they  were  about  to  turn  again,  a  voice 
from  the  other  side  saluted  them,  causing  them  both  to 
start  rather  suddenly  from  their  quiescent  enjoyment. 

"  Well  done !"  said  the  voice,    with   an   articulation 

7  i 

whose  rapidity  alone  might  have  betrayed  its  possessor. 
"  How  dee  do  ?  Got  back  again,  ye  see  !  Pleasant ! 
Beautiful  day,  ain't  it  ?" 

They  looked  only  to  behold  Mr.  Dandelly !  He  had 
just  taken  off  his  white  castor,  and  was  industriously  en 
gaged  in  fanning  his  bed  of  sweltering  curls,  with  a  hand 
kerchief  whose  perfumes  might  have  been  stolen  from 
Araby  the  Blest.  The  same  strange  genius — the  same 
untiring,  indefatigable,  never-dismayed  character,  that 
clung  to  an  acquaintance  to  the  end  of  his  days ;  good  for 
all  places,  and  warranted  to  last  through  all  time ! 

"At  least,"  thought  Arthur,  "I'll  brush  him  off!" 
and  offering  Martha  his  arm,  they  turned  quite  abruptly 
down  another  path,  leaving  the  poor  creature  alone  with 
his  lengthened  ringlets,  and  his  lengthening  reflections. 


CHAPTER    XXXII. 

FATHER     AND     DAUGHTER. 

• 

SOON  after  tea  the  same  evening,  which  was  prepared 
at  an  early  hour  in  Mr.  Elvers's  household  during  these 
long  and  weary  summer  days,  Martha  happened  to  be 
sitting  again  on  the  piazza-bench,  alone.  Mary  was  en 
gaged  about  something  interesting  chiefly  to  herself,  and 
therefore  sought  the  additional  retirement  of  her  own 
apartment. 

The  flush  of  the  new  happiness  still  lay  over  the  spirits 
of  Martha,  and  betrayed  itself  sufficiently  in  the  expres 
sion  of  her  face.  She  was  sitting  there  thus  quietly,  try 
ing  to  lay  against  her  heart  the  full  meaning  of  the  words 
that  had  but  that  afternoon  been  spoken,  and  to  feel  in 
some  proper  degree  the  depth  and  breadth  of  the  reality 
that  had  now  resulted.  But  clearly  to  separate  the  actu 
ality  from  those  pleasanter  and  more  delightful  emotions 
that  would  go  dancing  through  her  nature ;  to  measure 
by  a  thought,  so  critical  that  it  could  analyze  and  sep 
arate,  while  it  still  enjoyed,  the  boundless  delight  that 
had  unexpectedly  been  begotten  of  that  day  ;  to  divorce 
her  feelings  of  indescribable  pleasure  from  the  bright 
tints  that  colored  them  all,  and  bring  them  down  to  a 
hard  and  dry  realization,  this  was  what  she  could  not  do, 
for  it  was  more  than  any  human  heart  in  like  "circum 
stances  ever  confessed  to  itself  that  it  has  accomplished. 


FATHER    AND    DAUGHTER.  327 

The  garden,  she  thought,  never  looked  more  beautifully 
to  her  than  now;  nor  the  walks,  the  trees,  the  foliage, 
the  sky.  She  saw  beauties  where — cultivated  as  was  the 
sense  of  beauty  within  her — she  had  not  seen  them  be 
fore.  All  the  world  wore  the  same  rosy  and  radiant 
colorings  that  were  given  it  of  her  own  impassioned 
heart.  There  was  nothing  like  an  excitement,  either, 
upon  her ;  on  the  contrary,  a  sweet  peace  brooded  over 
her  feelings,  out  of  which  more  joy  flowed  than  ever 
gushed  from  the  waters  of  a  swift  and  turbulent  ecstasy. 
It  was  joy,  but  not  partial  joy.  It  was  a  perfect  joy,  full 
and  complete.  And  as  it  welled  up  constantly  till  her 
heart  was  running  over,  so  it  lent  its  own  peculiar  lights 
to  the  very  landscape  over  which  her  eyes  went  roaming. 
It  seemed,  rather  than  to  excite  her,  to  lay  a  calm  hand 
upon  her  head  and  compose  her  with  its  blessing. 

In  the  midst  of  the  delicious  reverie  of  the  evening 
hour,  she  caught  an  approaching  footstep  across  the  hall, 
which  she  knew  to  be  her  father's.  He  stood  in  the  door 
a  moment,  and  spoke  carelessly  of  the  appearance  of  the 
sky  in .  the  west,  prophesying  a  bright  day  for  the  mor 
row.  Then  slowly  approaching  her,  he  asked  if  she  were 
alone ;  and  receiving  her  answer,  took  her  hand  within 
his  arm,  after  his  old-time  manner  of  affection,  and  began 
a  thoughtful  walk  up  and  down  the  garden  paths. 

For  a  while  his  talk  to  her  was  only  of  general  matters ; 
such  as  any  father  might. easily  be  supposed  to  indulge  in 
with  his  daughter,  in  a  stroll  through  a  garden  full  of 
objects  of  interest  to  them.  both.  He  had  many  com 
ments  to  make  on  the  flowers ;  their  thrift,  and  their  fu 
ture  promise.  He  offered  a  variety  of  observations  on 
the  general  plan  of  things,  suggesting  a  list  of  alterations 
and  improvements  against  another  season;  and  at  last 
turned  his  .eyes  in  the  direction  of  the  little  arbor,  and 


328  FATHEK    AND    DAUGHTER. 

spoke  of  the  climbing  vines  there,  that  were  so  full  of 
shadowy  assurances  for  the  summers  just  before  them. 

Martha's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  arbor,  too ;  and  her 
heart  beat  more  briskly  against  her  boddice,  as  she  re 
garded  it,  and  her  breath  came  shorter. 

He  led  her  gently  along,  until  they  reached  the  en 
trance.  She  threw  in  a  glance ;  the  interior  seemed  to 
her  never  to  look  so  beautiful.  She  was  going  all  through 
with  her  rich  afternoon  experience  again.  But  just  as 
she  expected  to  take  the  next  step  forward,  and  pass  the 
leaf-frilled  entrance,  what  should  her  father  do  but  stop 
altogether,  and  take  her  hand  in  his  own.  Her  face  was 
deeply  suffused  with  color. 

"  My  daughter,"  said  he,  in  a  low  voice  that  thrilled 
her  every  nerve, "  I  have  been  wanting  to  speak  with  you 
about  a  matter  that  chiefly  concerns  yourself,  for  several 
days.  Let  us  go  in  here,  where  we  can  be  alone,  and  I 
will  begin  upon  it.  Come !" 

And  before  she  could  have  protested  or  resisted,  had 
such  been  her  disposition,  he  had  conducted  her  to  the 
bench,  and  seated  himself  close  by  her  side. 

"  I  will  come  to  it  at  once,"  said  he.  "  It 's  about  Mr. 
Holliday." 

She  felt  as  if  her  face  was  burning  up.  So  soon  upon 
the  scene  that  had  before  been  enacted  in  that  samo 
place ! 

"He  spoke  with  me  about  you,  several  days  since," 
continued  her  father,  "  professing  an  ardent  and  honor 
able  attachment.  I  had  some  considerable  conversation 
with  him  on  the  subject,  in  the  course  of  which  I  deter 
mined  to  understand  thoroughly  what  his  professions 
might  really  mean — what  they  were  made  of.  I  ques 
tioned  him  freely  ;  and  I  must  say  that  to  all  my  inquiries 
he  answered  with  perfect  candor  and  a  true  gentleman's 


FATHER    AND     DAUGHTER.  329 

frankness.  He  freely  confessed  his  deep  affection,  and 
besought  my  permission  to  offer  you  such  attentions  as 
might  be  mutually  congenial  to  you  both.  And  I  at 
once  gave  it  to  him.  I  could  do  no  less  to  a  person  for 
whom  I  have  ever  entertained  such  high  respect.  Have 
you  ever  observed  any  partiality  for  you  on  his  part, 
Martha  ?" 

She  confessed  that  she  had. 

"  A  decided  partiality  ?"  he  persisted.  "  So  striking 
as  to  put  your  mind  in  a  new  train  of  thought  ?" 

Yes,  she  was  obliged  to  admit  that,  too.  It  was  not 
the  time  now  for  concealment.  Every  thing  depended 
on  open  dealing  with  one  another. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  he,  "  he  had  my  assent — he  had  it 
freely.  Now,  Martha,  I  want  you  to  tell  me  plainly  if 
you  are  pleased  with  his  attentions,  especially  when  they 
aspire  to  a  character  that  all  partialities  do  not.  I  wish 
you  would  frankly  give  up  to  me  one  secret  of  you'- 
heart ;  not  to  be  used  for  any  purpose  that  can  in  the 
most  remote  manner  interfere  with  your  happiness,  but 
simply  to  place  me,  as  well  as  yourself,  on  such  a  footing 
with  him  as  may  be  proper  in  the  premises.  You  will 
understand  exactly  what  I  mean.  I  know  your  own 
good  sense  will  commend  my  inquiry  and  the  motive 
that  prompted  it.  Do  you  like  Mr.  Holliday,  my  daugh 
ter  ?" 

There  Avas  but  one  answer  to  such  a  question  as  that, 
of  course ;  and  she  could  not  be  supposed  to  burden  it 
with  a  great  many  qualifications. 

"  Of  his  preference — nay,  of,  his  passion,  I  myself  am 
very  well  persuaded,"  he  went  on.  "  I  think  I  have  de 
tected  it  long  since  in  a  variety  of  little  matters.  It  was 
quite  unmistakable.  If  you  find  that  your  heart  secretly 
repays  this  feeling  of  his,  and  if,  furthermore,  you  are 


330  FATHER    AND    DAUGHTER. 

satisfied  that  his  nature  and  disposition — to  say  nothing 
of  his  prospects — are  such  as  are  reasonably  suited  to 
your  own,  why — why — "  and  then  ensued  a  pause  that 
Martha  would  gladly  have  furnished  him  with  a  quarto 
dictionary  to  fill  up. 

"  Why,"  pursned  he,  after  seeming  to  turn  it  over  and 
over  in  his  mind,  "  then  you  certainly  can  have  no  objec 
tion  to — to — to — "  and  here  came  another  pause,  quite  as 
awful  as  before. 

"  But  for  all  that  I  seem  to  hold  him  in  such  estimation, 
Martha,"  he  added,  not  troubling  himself  at  all  to  com 
plete  his  last  two  fragmentary  sentences — "  I  wish  I  could 
learn  more  about  his  history,  from  his  youth  up ;  for  in 
the  first  place,  he  interests  me  deeply,  and  always  has 
since  the  day  he  rescued  you  from  the  awful  death  that 
threatened  you — " 

Martha  instinctively  shuddered  at  the  mere  recollection 
of  that  runaway  ride. 

"  And  in  the  second  place,  there  appears  to  be  some 
sort  of  a  mystery  folded  up  in  his  life  that  a  tender  sym 
pathy  could  not  fail  to  unravel.  My  curiosity  is  a  little 
piqued  as  well  as  my  sympathy ;  and  I  confess  it :  but 
it  is  only  to  you,  my  daughter." 

Martha  had  herself  at  times  been  moved  by  the  same 
or  similar  feelings,  although  they  had  been  kept  entirely 
to  herself.  "  Still,"  replied  she  to  her  father's  remai-ks,  "  lit 
tle  as  we  may  know  of  him,  or  rather  of  his  early  history, 
he  has  certainly  commended  himself  to  our  respect,  if  not 
to  our  affection,  since  we  first  knew  him." 

"Certainly  he  has.  I  dispute  nothing  of  that  kind, 
I  was  only  seeking  to  gratify  certain  feelings  that  in 
fluence  me  at  times.  Yet  if  they  should  n't  happen  to  be 
gratified  at  all — why,  I  suppose  it  would  make  no  such 
great  difference  in  the  end." 


FATHER    AND    DAUGHTER.  33l 

"  Perhaps  he  will  narrate  what  there  is  to  be  told  in 
good  time,"  suggested  Martha. 

"  Well,  let  us  hope  so.  I  can  wait  in  patience,  I  think ; 
especially  if  you  can,  my  daughter." 

They  exchanged  smiles. 

"  Of  course  you  hold  a  high  opinion  of  him.  as  an  au 
thor?"  her  father  remarked.  "  You  look  upon  him  as  a 
man  of  much  promise,  do  you  not  ?"  , 

"  Have  you  read  his  last  book  yourself,  father?  and  his 
first  one  too,  for  that  matter  ?"  she  asked,  regarding  him 
with  a  look  not  a  little  related  to  pride. 

"  Yes,  I  have  ;  and  I  must  say  that  I  liked  it.  I  liked 
its  tone.  It  was  a  healthy  one  throughout.  You  know  I 
don't  call  myself  much  of  a  critic,  of  course ;  but  then 
that  does  n't  hinder  my  knowledge  of  my  own  feelings,  as 
I  can  see.  And  I  thought,  furthermore,  from  the  reading 
of  his  volume,  that  he  was  a  young  man  of  whom  a  great 
deal  may  be  expected ;  not  any  the  less,  to  be  sure,  be 
cause  he  is  now  quite  unknown,  and  because  he  lives  for 
the  time  in  this  seclusion.  You  can't  tell  how  soon  some 
persons  will  flower  out." 

"  No  one  could  expect  that  such  a"  person  should  be 
very  generally  appreciated  in  a  locality  like  this,  you 
know,  father ;  all  pretty  enough  and  pleasant  enough  as  a 
rural  district;  but  not  peopled  by  those  who  are  par 
ticularly  qualified  to  judge  in  matters  of  intellectual 
attainments." 

"  I  know  that  very  well.  But  while  I  do  know  it,  I 
can  see  enough  of  Mr.  Holliday's  good  sense  and  ac 
curate  calculation  in  settling  in  such  a  place,  till  he  has 
got  a  foothold  in  his  profession,  to  mak,e  me  respect  him 
all  the  more." 

"  Yes,  but  I  do  not  think  it  is  altogether  from  mere 
motives  of  prudence  or  economy  that  he  remains  here  ii? 


332  FATHER    AND     DAUGHTER. 

his  present  retirement.  That  is  something,  of  course; 
but  it  is  n't  all." 

"  \yhat  then  ?"  asked  he,  scarcely  thinking  of  any  other 
considerations  that  could  induce  him  to  lead  such  a  life. 

"Why,  his  deep  and  ardent  love  for  nature,"  answered 
Martha,  showing  by  her  tone  that  she  fully  appreciated 
the  feeling  of  the  young  author  herself. 

"Ah!  that  indeed!"  said  Mr.  Rivers.  "Love  of  na 
ture  ?  Yes,  that 's  a  great  deal." 

"  It  is  with  some  beings,"  answered  Martha ;  "  and  with 
him  not  less  than  myself.  We  both  agree  exactly  in  that 
matter.'* 

"  Do  you  ?  Then  so  much  the  better !  Then  so  much 
the  more  reason  for  hoping  that  your  dispositions  are  al 
together  alike,  and  will  finally  coalesce  entirely.  From 
my  own  feelings  on  that  point  I  know  very  well  that  it  is 
a  strong  bond  to  hold  congenial  natures  together.  If 
this  love  for  nature  is  a  leading  element  in  the  soul  of 
Mr.  Holliday,  Martha—" 

"  It  is,  it  is,  father." 

"  Then  he  is  already  ennobled  and  refined  far  above 
what  mere  social  life  can  do  for  him ;  and  there  is  little 
or  no  more  need  of  questionings  about  his  character. 
That  is  passport  enough.  It  proves  him  pure,  and  gener 
ous,  and  good.  But  have  you  ever  thought  what  sort  of 
a  wife  you  might  make  for  an  author,  my  daughter  ? 
Think  you,  you  can  fill  such  a  place  not  only  with  satis 
faction  to  your  husband,  but  with  happiness  to  yourself?" 

She  blushed  before  she  answered. 

"  If  our  tastes  are  at  all  alike,  as  they  are,"  said  she, 
thoughtfully,  "  perhaps  such  a  relation  might  be  a  happy 
fcne." 

"  So  indeed  it  would,"  replied  her  father.  "  Only  find 
sympathies  that  feed  your  own  sympathies,  and  the  union 


FATHER     AXJ>     J>  A  f  < ,  I!  T  i:  K  .  333 

is  sure  to  promise  every  thing  that  could  be  desired.  I 
am  free  to  say  that  I  like  Mr.  Holliday,  and  always  have ; 
and  he  has  had  my  consent  to  pay  such  attentions  to  you 
as  may  be  agreeable.  Now  I  am  going  to  leave  you 
alone  here  to  think  about 'it  as  long  as  you  will." 

He  arose  to  depart. 

"  Oh,  father,"  called  she,  desirous  perhaps  of  changing 
the  subject  a  little.  "  Arthur  and  I  were  talking  the 
other  day  about  something  that  I  promised  him  I  would 
ask  you  to  explain." 

"  What  is  that,  my  daughter  ?  I  am  willing  to  enlighten 
you  all  I  can."  r 

"  Will  you  surely,  then,  on  this  subject  ?" 

"  Well,  well ;  first  tell  me  what  it  is,  and  I  will  give 
you  my  answer  afterward.  That 's  the  business  way,  you 
know." 

"  It  is  about  that  book-peddler  that  came  here  a  few 
days  ago.  As  soon  as  he  saw  you  he  muttered  something, 
turned  deathly  pale,  and  went  away.  You  would  n't  tell 
me  what  it  meant  at  the  time,  you  know — " 

"Then  I'm  certain  I  can  not  do  so  now.  Oh,  no; 
that 's  nothing.  That 's  all  gone  by  now,  and  must  n't 
be  spoken  of.  It  was  something  you  wouldn't  under 
stand,  even  if  I  should  tell  you  ;  and  if  you  did,  why  no 
good  would  be  done  by  my  telling.  N"o,  no ;  let  that 
matter  drop.  Don't  ask  me  about  it  again.  It 's  blown 
over,  and  never  will  be  likely  to  be  heard  of  again." 

And  with  these  few  words  he  slipped  out  of  the  little 
vine-clad  arbor,  and  pursued  his  way  to  the  house. 

For  nearly  an  hour  the  enraptured  heart  of  the  girl  held 
her  in  that  delightful  seclusion.  She  sat  alone  and 
dreamed  it  all  over  again,  stretching  her  dreams  far  for 
ward  into  the  future.  The  event  of  that  afternoon  she 
had  not  yet  had  the  courage  to  communicate  to  her  father, 


334         .  FATHER    AND    DAUGHTER. 

although  a  better  opportunity  never  could  present  itself 
than  the  one  she  had  just  suffered  to  pass  unimproved. 
Yet  she  looked  forward  to  the  full  revelation  of  her  secret 
in  good  time,  when  her  heart  told  her  that  others  beside 
herself  would  gladly  welcome  her  lover  with  the  open  arms 
of  affection  and  relationship. 

And  there  in  the  rustic  temple   she   dreamed,   and 
dreamed  on. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

A    MUTK     MONITOR. 

ON  the  inauspicious  evening*  of  Mr.  Jacob  Dollar's  se 
cret  conference  with  his  brother  in  crime,  he  retired  very 
soon  after  supper  to  the  privacy  of  his  own  apartment. 

At  a  time  like  this,  crowded  so  full  with  the  specula 
tions  of  his  guilty  thoughts,  and  ah' ve  with  the  torturing 
suggestions  of  a  soul  in  which  murder  itself  held  its  court, 
his  manner  could  not  fail  to  be  agitated  to  a  remarkable 
degree.  He  was  in  no  wise  himself  on  this  evening.  That 
coolness  which  he  ordinarily  wore  about  him  like  a  gar 
ment,  and  by  the  help  of  which  he  well  know  how  to  chill 
and  repel  all  undesirable  approaches,  was  not  upon  him 
now.  The  usual  audacity  had  left  the  expression  of  his 
countenance.  That  look  of  biting  cynicism  was  gone. 
His  nerves  had  lost  a  great  part  of  their  energy,  too,  as 
nothing  but  his  faltering  and  unsteady  step  across  the 
floor — to  and  fro,  to  and  fro — would  testify.  He  carried 
his  hands  unsteadily,  and  without  purpose  ;  swinging  them 
carelessly  about  him,  tucking  them  under  the  skirts  of 
his  coat,  thrusting  them  into  his  pockets,  or  passing  them 
hastily  through  his  hair. 

What  energy  he  did  display  was  fitful  and  irresponsible. 
It  was  not  his  own.  It  betrayed  only  an  occasional  re 
turn  of  his  true  reason,  and  of  course,  therefore,  the  gen 
eral  supremacy  of  chaos  among  his  feelings  and  thoughts. 


336  A    MUTE    MONITOR. 

Already  the  mysterious  change  had  come  over  him, 
against  which,  under  like  circumstances,  no  living  man 
can  hope  to  make  provision.  He  had  dared  to  touch  the 
pitch,  and  he  could  not  help  being  defiled.  The  sacred 
oath  of  nature  that  bound  him  to  innocence,  he  had  reck 
lessly  violated ;  and  now  there  was  no  peace  for  him,  let 
him  turn  whichever  way  he  would.  An  echo  startled 
him.  A  mere  shadow  aroused  him  like  an  accusing  spirit. 
The  hasty  beating  of  his  heart,  as  he  paused  a  moment  to 
listen,  sounded  like  the  roll  of  the  drum  of  fate. 

His  face  was  flushed,  *but  not  altogether  with  wine. 
Something  beneath  this  it  was  that  caused  such  an  un 
usual  betrayal  of  excited  feeling.  He  could  not  drive  it 
from  his .  thoughts,  that  he  had  recently  had  ominous 
business — business  of  violence  and  wrong — with  Isaac 
Crankey,  the  monster  whose  hands  shrank  not  from  the 
stains  of  innocent  blood*  He  was  not  able  to  expel  the 
dreadful  reflection  from  his  mind,  that  at  that  very  hour, 
it  might  be,  a  fellow  creature  was  suffering  through  his 
own  cruel  instrumentality !  He  could  begin  to  feel  the 
truth  that  others  have  felt  poignantly  before  him, 

"  Tis  conscience  that  makes  cowards  of  vfs  alL" 

An  indefinable,  and  therefore  a  more  dreadful  fear,  cast 
its  dark, 'dull  shadow  over  his  heart;  the  fear  lest  what 
he  had  projected  should  not  result  exactly  as  he  wished  ; 
lest  some  trifling  accident  that  no  human  sense  could 
have  foreseen  and  averted,  might  have  come  in  between 
him  and  his  object,  and  might  yet  send  back  the  guilt 
with  a  terrible  recoil  upon  his  own  soul.  Under  the  mor 
bid  influence  of  such  a  fear,  therefore,  he  was  carried  to 
a  pitch  of  excitement  nearly  related  to  insanity  itself. 

As  soon  as  he  sat  down,  every  noise  that  reached  him 
at  all  suddenly  from  the  street,  started  him  half  out  of 


A    MUTE    MONITOK.  337 

his  chair.  The  sounds  of  the  coming  and  going  footsteps 
on  the  pavements  he  caught  with  indescribable  eagerness, 
lest  some  of  them  might  be  the  footsteps  of  an  unwelcome 
messenger.  Every  unexpected  blast  of  wind  upon  the 
blinds ;  every  creaking  of  a  bough  in  the  yard  against 
the  window  below;  every  doleful  moan  of  a  distant 
swinging  sign,  struck  a  secret  terror  to  his  heart,  as  if 
his  very  life  might  in  a  moment  freeze  and  die  within  him. 

His  eyes,  at  these  times  in  such  paroxysms  of  fear, 
seemed  quite  deprived  of  their  power  of  vision.  Mon 
sters,  now  and  then,  dire  and  dread,  mingling  themselves 
in  shapeless  masses,  clutching  and  clawing  at  each  other 
over  his  head,  kept  him  in  a  state  of  continual  trembling. 
He  knew  that  he  felt  hot  and  sickening  breaths,  emitted 
from  the  mouths  of  creatures  that  had  no  existence  save 
in  his  own  diseased  brain,  streaming  forth  upon  him,  over 
his  face,  in  long,  unbroken  lines ;  and  unconsciously  he 
turned  away  his  head  in  disgust,  and  gasped  for  air  that  was 
free  from  the  contamination  of  creatures  so  indescribable. 

Suddenly  his  eyes  grew  bleared,  and  looked  really 
bloodshot ;  so  that  he  could  but  indistinctly  observe  ob 
jects  just  across  the  room.  Every  thing  seemed  to  swim 
before  him,  or  to  grow  strangely  colored  and  distorted. 
He  actually  thrust  out  his  hands,  as  if  he  would  know 
whether  the  images  that  moved  in  his  brain  were  real 
ities  in  the  focus  of  his  diseased  vision. 

The  room  was  fearfully  still.  A  tomb,  it  seemed, 
could  hardly  be  more  so.  One  could  have  heard  dis 
tinctly  the  slight  scratch  «f  a  nail,  or  the  merest  creak 
of  a  board.  It  was  not  a  natural  silence  at  all ;  it  seemed 
ominous  and  awful.  It  was  begotten  of  some  influence 
that  must  have  been  close  of  kin  to  death.  Apparently 
it  was  the  brooding  of  some  revolting  terror  over  the 
man — over  the  heart — over  the  entire  apartment. 

15 


338  A    MUTE    MONITOR. 

And  what  was  the  cause  of  all  this  secret  distress  to 
the  heart  of  the  man  of  money  ?  Why  fetched  he  such 
deep,  deep  breaths,  like  one  whose  lungs  are  stifling  for 
want  of  air,  and  who  feels  himself  sinking  down — down 
to  a  depth  from  which  he  can  never  rise  again  ?  Were 
not  all  his  plans  now  perfect  ?  Had  he  omitted  or  over 
looked  one  single  trifling  link  in  the  iron  chain  he  had 
been  forging  ?  Was  there  any  loop-hole  still  left,  out 
through  which  he  feared  mischief  arid  final  ruin  might 
creep  slily  on  his  wishes,  overthrowing  himself  at  the 
same  moment  with  them?  Would  not  no^y  his  most 
eager  desire  reach  its  realization — the  desire  of  obtaining, 
even  although  by  monstrous  violence,  the'  paper  that  re 
corded  irresistible  proof  of  his  black-heartedness  and 
treachery  ? 

The  door-bell  rung.     It  was  a  hasty  and  alarming  ring. 

He  started  up  as  if  he  had  heard  the  quick  report  of 
a  pistol.  Every  tinkle — tinkle — tinkle  of  the  bell  re 
sounded  sharply  in  his  ears.  The  multiplied  echoes  rang 
and  kept  ringing  through  the  whole  house.  His  heart 
beat  alarmingly  faster,  yet  he  could  not  tell  why.  The 
blood  flushed  his  face,  and  then  as  quickly  left  him  pale 
as  a  statue.  He  clutched  the  arms  of  his  chair,  and  sat 
bolt  upright,  staring  every  where  about  him. 

There  was  something  more  that  .started  his  fears.  He 
caught  a  sound  like  the  shuffling  of  feet  in  the  hali  below. 
And  next  he  heard  a  tramp ;  the  steady  tread  of  feet, 
tramp — tramp. 

Now  he  sprang  to  his  feet.* 

He  could  hear  a  shriek  below — short  and  piercing. 
Confused  screams  and  cries  from  female  voices  reached 
him,  and  his  blood  curdled  with  fear.  And  above  all 
other  sounds  came  the  quick  voice  of  men — calling,  and 
ordering,  and  advising. 


A    MUTE    MONITOR.  333 

His  heart  was  already  in  his  mouth.  He  could  neither 
speak  nor  move.  There  he  was  standing  in  the  middle  of 
the  floor,  frozen  to  the  spot  to  which  his  nerveless  limbs 
held  him,  and  gazing  around  him  in  resistless  agitation 
and  blank  dismay.  Something  had  happened,  he  knew ; 
but  what  ? 

Now  there  were  feet  to  be  heard  on  the  stairs  ap 
proaching.  Each  moment  they  came  up — up,  and  nearer 
— nearer.  Now  they  were  at  the  landing.  Now  at  the 
very  door  of  his  apartment. 

He  heard  an  abrupt  and  thundering  knock  ;  and  before 
he  could  have  had  time  to  answer,  the  door  was  hastily 
opened.  A  loud  cry  of  distress — a  deep  subdued  moan 
that  came  from  the  heart  of  a  sufferer — was  all  he  heard. 
A  maid-servant  stood  before  him,  wringing  her  hands 
and  almost  choking  with  her  great  grief. 

"  Wh — what  is  the  matter  ?" 

It  was  all  he  could  do  to  gasp  it  out. 

"  Oh,  sir!  Oh,  sir!"  cried  the  girl,  at  length;  "come 
down  stairs  and  see !  Only  come  yourself  and  see  the 
dreadful — dreadful  sight !" — and  again  she  fell  to  weep 
ing  more  bitterly  than  before. 

"Who — where  am  I?  What  is  it?  Who  has  come? 
Tell  me,  girl !"  he  shouted,  seizing  her  frenziedly  by  the 
arm. 

"Down  stairs,  sir!  Down  stairs!"  she  cried.  "Oh, 
cruel — cruel  thing !  Oh,  sir — only  go  down  stairs  and 
see  it  for  yourself!" 

So  unsatisfactory  an  answer,  which  was  quite  all  the 
affrighted  creature  «ould  give  him,  fired  him  with  an  en 
ergy  he  never  knew  before.  Yet  with  the  energy  came 
a  dreadful  fear  that  was  sickening  and  deathly. 

"'Merciful  Heavens!"  he  exclaimed.  "What  does  all 
this  mean !  In  my  own  house,  too !  What  can  it  mean  !" 


340          .  A    MUTE    MONITOR. 

and  lie  rushed  madly  past  the  girl,  and  hurried  out  through 
the  door. 

Down  the  hall  stairs  he  pursued  his  headlong  way — 
his  brain  whirling  and  his  eyes  swimming,  thinking  not 
of  himself  or  his  own  safety — and  drove  onward  till  he 
came  up  with  a  dark  knot  of  men  gathered  in  a  door  at 
the  further  end  of  the  hall.  As  he  reached  them  one  of 
them  caught  hold  of  his  arm  to  keep  him  back. 

"Who  is  it?"  he  demanded,  gazing  insanely  into  the 
faces  of  them  all.  "  What  does  this  mean  ?  I  demand 
of  you  to  tell  me  !  What  ait  you  doing  here  ?  Am  I 
in  my  own  house  ?  Do  I  know  what  I  am  about  ?  Is  n't 
this  Jacob  Dollar  ?  Do  I  see  these  men  here  before  me  ? 
What  are  you  here  for  ?  What  is  it  ?  Let  go  of  me  ! 
Let  me  go  in  !  Stand  back,  I  say — all  of  you !  Make 
room  for  me  !  What  does  all  this  mean  ?" 

As  he  finished  speaking  thus  passionately  he  made  a 
fearful  effort  to  pass  on,  bracing  his  arms  stoutly  against 
those  who  stood  in  his  way.  He  appeared  to  possess 
the  strength  of  a  madman.  In  another  moment  he  had 
forced  himself  into  the  room,  when  he  strode  across  the 
flooi  to  the  spot  about  which  the  others  were  gathered. 

Already  the  room  was  dark  with  the  crowd  of  people. 
They  swayed  and  pushed  this  way  and  that,  every  face 
betraying  the  deep  and  solemn  feeling  that  ruled  their 
hearts.  .The  voices  of  all  were  low,  and  surcharged  with 
a  heavy  sadness.  They  bewildered  the  man  of  wealth 
still  the  more,  and  made  his  terror  the  greater  and  more 
appalling. 

He  worked  a  passage  to  the  center  of  the  group. 
There  was  a  table  there,  and  across  the  table  lay 
stretched  a  body !  He  started  with  a  cry  as  his  eyes 
first  fell  on  it. 

Looking  down  nearer  he   saw  the  pale   face  of  the 


A     MUTE  »MONITOK.  341 

corpse.  Closer — closer  still,  and  he  got  a  view  of  all  its 
lineaments.  He  saw  all !  He  knew  all !  It  was  the 
body  of  his  only  son  and  child  ! 

So  sudden  and  overwhelming  was  the  shock,  that  for  a 
moment  he  was  struck  dumb.  He  vented  his  anguish  in 
one  single  groan  ;  and  that  was  all.  Clasping  his  hands 
together,  and  straining  his  wild  gaze  upon  his  child,  he 
seemed  not  to  breathe,  but  to  have  yielded  at  last  al 
together  to  the  distracting  powers  that  beset  his  soul. 

"  Murdered !"  whispered  a  voice  that  sounded  in  his 
ear  like  a  loud  hiss.  "  See  here !" — and  a  man  put  away 
the  streaming  locks  of  hair,  and  laid  bare  the  ugly  wound 
across  the  pallid  temple. 

"  Murdered !"  suddenly  seemed  to  echo  itself  in  yells — 
in  screeches — in  loud  and  direful  cries  in  his  ears,  till  the 
voices  echoed  like  the  wails  and  sobs  of  a  great  tempest. 
"  Murdered !  Murdered !"  He  thought  he  had  known 
that  word  before.  Those  dread  syllables  seemed  not 
quite  unfamiliar  to  him.  They  revived  strange  phantoms 
that  had  dimly  peopled  his  brain  for  many  days.  They 
gave  him,  as  it  were,  a  half  scent  of  blood,  so  that  he 
grew  sick,  and  faint,  and  trembling.  Oh,  what  a  word^> 
what  a  fearful  word  was  that ! 

The  young  man  lay  rigid  in  the  arms  of  death.  His 
head  had  been  thoughtfully  adjusted  so  that  his  counte 
nance  wore  its  familiar  expression,  and  his  hands  were 
fixed  stiff  and  motionless  at  his  side.  Those  around  the 
table  were  viewing  him  with  pitying  eyes,  lamenting  the 
fatal  blow  that  robbed  a  fellow-being  so  cruelly  of  his  life. 

The  lips  exuded  a  white  froth,  showing  that  his  death 
was  hard,  and  came  only  after  the  severest  struggles  with 
nature.  The  eyes  were  wholly  closed.  The  hair,  that  had 
become  considerably  matted,  was  brushed  carefully  away 
from  the  forehead  now,  revealing  the  broad  mark  of 


342  A    MUTE    JfcONITOR. 

blood  that  was  drawn  across  his  left  temple,  and  staining 
the  skin  till  it  presented  a  horrid  spectacle.  At  that 
place  the  skull  had  been  broken  in.  That  was  where  the 
assassin's  bludgeon  fell.  Through  this  aperture  the  soul 
had  gone  out  again  to  its  Maker. 

The  father  at  length  comprehended  it  all,  and  then 
broke  forth  in  a  wail  of  agony  that  was  uncontrollable  : 

"  Oh,  my  boy !  my  boy !  my  own  dear  boy !  This 
great  wickedness !  this  cruel,  cruel  wrong  Oh,  this 
wicked  murder !  Who  has  done  it !  Who  has  robbed  me 
of  my  own  child — my  only  child  ?  Oh,  who  has  done  it  ? 
Henry,  my  child  !" — he  took  hold  of  his  cold  hand,  and 
slowly  lifted  it  up  from  his  side — "  speak  to  me  only 
once  more !  Only  once,  dear  Henry  !  Speak  again  to 
me!  Oh,  do  speak!  Oh,  God  !  what  has  come  on  me 
to-day  !  What  a  wicked  wretch  !  Oh,  what  a  crime  is 
this!  If  I  had  never  lived  to  see  it !  If  I  had  died  be 
fore  you,  my  dear  son !  Speak,  Henry  !  Speak  !  Oh, 
my  wicked,  wicked  soul ! — my  wretched  heart ! — my 
bloody  hands!"  and  he  held  them  up  before  his  eyes. 
"  God  forgive  me  !  God  only  forgive  me  !" 

He  continued  to  bend  over  to  the  face  of  his  dead  son, 
uttering  such  wild  ejaculations  as  these,  until,  in  conse 
quence  of  some  sudden  and  inexplicable  revulsion  of  feel 
ing,  he  turned  like  an  insane  man,  rushed  out  of  the  room, 
and  ran  up  stairs  into  the  apartment  he  had  just  left,  se 
curing  the  door  after  him. 

Then  pacing  the  floor  frantically  to  and  fro,  he  began 
to  bewail  the  terrible  calamity  that  had  fallen  on  him. 
The  vivid  recollection,  too,  of  the  murderer's  project  he 
had  himself  so  lately  planned  with  his  confederate,  Isaac 
Crankey,  now  flashed  over  his  guilty  soul,  and  made  his 
torment  harrowing  beyond  description.  He  saw  how  his 
own  wicked  scheme  had  miscarried.  He  saw  how  fear- 


A    MUTE    MONITOR.  343 

fully  it  had  been  made  to  recoil  upon  himself;  how  bitter, 
how  very  bitter,  was  the  draught,  when  the  chalice  was 
held  for  his  own  lips  to  drain  ! 

And  laying  his  head  at  last  upon  the  table,  and  burying 
his  face  in  his  hands,  he  wept  aloud. 

Poor,  guilty,  crime-overtaken  man  Tears  were  all 
the  relief  his  soul  could  at  such  a  time  enjoy.  He  might 
well  thank  God  for  even  them. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

ACCUSER  AND   ACCUSED. 

THE  funeral  solemnities  were  hardly  over,  when  the 
real  nature  of  Mr.  Dollar  began  to  exhibit  itself  in  a  way 
that  few  of  his  friends  or  acquaintance  would  have  sus 
pected.  As  if  possessed  of  a  spirit  of  revenge  that  would 
better  have  belonged  to  a  fiend,  he  immediately  set  him 
self  about  the  work  of  exacting  blood  for  the  blood,  that 
had  already  been  shed.  It  was  not  enough  that  the  law 
had  taken  this  mysterious  matter  into  its  own  hands ;  he 
would  go  beyond  the  law ;  its  operations  were  too  slow 
for  a  spirit  so  maddened  as  his ;  he  would  go  as  far  as 
he  who  went  farthest,  in  ferreting  out  and  bringing  to 
condign  punishment  the  perpetrator  of  a  crime  so  revolt 
ing.  It  was  true  that  all  this  would  not  restore  his  son 
to  him  again ;  it  would  never  bring  back  that  presence, 
that  look,  those  familiar  words,  never  so  dear  to  him  as 
now ;  but  revenge  would  be  so  sweet  to  a  nature  like  his, 
and  would  drive  away  more  harrowing  memories  in  the 
wild  excitement  "of  its  pursuit. 

"  I  have  money,  enough  of  it,"  said  he.  "  It  shall 
every  dollar  melt  from  my  hands  rather  than  the  gallows 
shall  go  cheated  of  its  victim  !  I  will  spend  all  I  am  worth 
before  I  will  suffer  the  cold-blooded  murderer  of  my  child 
to  go  unpunished !" 

And  night  and  day  he  labored  perseveringly  at  his  re 
solution.  He  pried  into  minute  circumstances,  that  had 


ACCUSE  B    AND    ACCUSED.  345 

transpired  immediately  before  the  homicide,  with  a  zeal 
that  even  the  secret  police  might  have  taken  pattern 
after.  He  searched  through  the  most  trifling  bits  and 
shreds  of  fact,  to  see  if  he  could  find  nothing  to  fix  and 
hold  fast  his  suspicions.  He  built  up  imaginary  theories, 
and  made  them  at  times  so  exceedingly  plausible,  that  he 
wondered  with  himself  if  he  had  not  really  hit  at  last  upon 
the  key  to  the  whole  nefarious  mystery.  Upon  this 
single  subject  he  was  little  better  than  a  monomaniac. 

Throughout  the  whole  of  his  excitement,  his  mind  had 
fastened  itself  upon  one  person,  whom  he  believed,  or 
wished  to  believe,  the  author  of  this  crime.  All  his 
thoughts  were  actively  engaged  in  creating  and  collecting 
proofs — no  matter  how  fine-spun  they  might  be — to  in- 
mesh  that  person  in  the  fatal  web  of  his  accusation.  His 
earnest  desire  of  fastening  guilt  upon  him  far  outran  his 
ability  to  collect  satisfactory  evidence  upon  which  to  base 
his  charge.  Yet  he  did  not  hesitate  or  falter.  His  crazed 
thoughts  gave  him  no  rest,  day  or  night.  They  would  be 
at  some  work  continually ;  and  no  work  was  more  con 
genial  than  this.  He  raved  openly  about  the  violent 
death  of  his  son,  assuring  every  one  who  was  willing  to 
listen  to  him,  that  the  murderer  should  not,  and  could 
not  escape.  People  only  thought  him  earnestly  anxious 
to  bring  a  criminal  to  deserved  punishment ;  but  in  fact 
the  sole  object  of  his  pursuit  was — revenge. 

As  a  matter  of  course,  energetic  inquiries  were  imme 
diately  set  on  foot  in  all  quarters  of  the  town,  for  ferret 
ing  out  and  bringing  to  speedy  justice  the  author  of  a 
deed  so  diabolical.  Here  stood  a  young  man  on  the 
threshold  of  life,  as  it  were,  with  a  heart  jubilant  in  the 
prospect  outstretched  before  him,  and  filled  with  the  im 
pulses  begotten  of  bright  hopes  and  generous  feelings. 
This  was  what  people  said. 

15* 


346  ACCUSER    AND    ACCUSED. 

And  this  young  man  had  been  suddenly,  and  without 
any  warning,  sent  out  of  the  world  ;  hurried,  driven  into 
the  presence  of  his  Maker.  He  loved  life,  it  was  prob 
able,  as  well  as  others.  His  enjoyments  might  have  been 
quite  as  perfect  and  satisfactory.  He  had  relations  whom, 
he  loved,  and  who  without  doubt  loved  him  tenderly  in 
return.  Then  how  cruel  the  blow  that  deprived  him  un 
expectedly  of  life  !  How  black  indeed  the  villain's  heart 
who  laid  in  wait  to  deal  the  deadly  stroke  with  his  weapon. 

Alas,  alas!  such  poor,  weak,  superficial  judges  of  the 
human  heart  are  we,  after  all !  Little  knew,  and  little 
thought  those  who  thus  reasoned  and  felt  with  them 
selves,  that  his  heart  was  filled  with  nothing  but  plots  of 
murder  and  wrong  at  the  very  moment  of  his  fearful 
death  !  Who  could  undertake  to  say  that  he  had  met 
with  nothing  more  than  his  just  retribution! 

And  while  the  authorities  studied  and  labored  over 
the  dark  mystery,  the  frantic  father  raved  and  labored 
too.  At  length  he  felt  that  he  had  come  so  closely  upon 
the  heart  of  the  matter,  that  he  openly  declared  the  real 
murderer  could  not  go  loose  upon  the  world  another  day  ! 
Society  should  not  longer  be  kept  in  fear  by  his  unchained 
presence !  He  was  a  monster  that  deserved  to  live  only 
in  the  process  of  a  slow  death  !  fit  only  to  be  lifted  by 
his  neck  between  the  heavens  and  the  earth,  for  a  ter 
rible  warning  and  example !  Justice,  yes,  justice,  he  said, 
was  all  he  wanted ;  and  of  that  no  human  being*  should 
defraud  him !  He  would  have  it,  too,  right  speedily ! 

And^his  half  insane  man,  who  goes  about  with  such 
high-sounding  phrases  in  behalf  only  of  right — who  fears 
so  much  for  the  safety  of  the  social  system  from  the  tem 
porary  freedom  of  the  murderer — who  is  so  willing  to 
spend  all  the  accumulations  of  laborious  years,  that  one 
single  crime  may  not  go  unaccompanied  with  its  proper 


ACCUSER    AND    ACCUSED.  34Y 

reward — this  man  could  himself  plan  a  cold-blooded  as 
sault  that  might  result  in  death ;  could  project  the  sub 
sequent  robbery  of  an  insensible  person,  and  still  cry  out 
against  another  who  happened  to  put  the  cup  to  his  own 
lips — "  Justice !  I  will  have  justice  !"  Could  it  be  that  in 
the  providence  of  One  greater  than  he,  the  poison  he  had 
mixed  for  another  he  had  been  forced  to  swallow  himself? 

One  more  day  passed. 

Duncan  Morrow  sat  in  his  room  engaged  in  reading. 
It  was  evening.  The  leisure  he  had  after  the  expiration 
of  the  day's  business  he  did  not  allow  to  go  unimproved ; 
and  at  this  particular  hour  he  happened  to  be  thoughtfully 
studying  the  pregnant  page  of  Shakspeare.  By  a  some 
what  strange  coincidence,  the  play  to  which  he  had  turn 
ed  happened  to  be  Macbeth.  His  soul  was  already  deeply 
wrought  upon  by  the  power  of  the  great  master,  and 
every  feeling  and  emotion  was  absorbed  in  the  unfolding 
of  the  passions  of  the  bemgs  that  lived  on  the  page.  He 
offered  a  picture  of  a  devoted  student  giving  "his  soul  to 
the  subject  before  him. 

Suddenly  he  thought  he  heard  footsteps  on  the  stairs 
as  of  men  coming  up.  He  lifted  his  eyes  from  the  book 
and  attentively  listened. 

The  men  reached  the  door,  and  knocked.  Rising  im 
mediately  from  his  chair,  and  holding  the  volume  still  in 
his  hand,  he  opened  to  his  visitors.  They  at  once  accost 
ed  him^with  hasty  and  in  coherent  words  ;  and  one  of  the 
two  asked  if  his  name  was  Duncan  Morrow. 

"  It  is,"  he  answered  him. 

Thereupon  both  of  the  strangers  pushed  into  the  room, 
and  closed  the  door  after  them. 

"  It 's  an  unpleasant  duty  to  perform,"  said  the  one  who 
had  put  the  question,  "  but  we  can't  help  that.  You  are 
arrested  on  a  charge  of  murder !" 


348          ACCUSER  AND  ACCUSED. 

Duncan  shrank  back  aghast.  His  face  suddenly  grew 
pale  as  death.  For  an  instant  he  could  not  speak. 

"Me  !    MURDER  !"  he  was  able  at  length  to  exclaim. 

They  simply  nodded  an  affirmative.  Their  silence  as 
sured  him  that  they  were  perfectly  serious  in  the  business 
in  which  they  had  come. 

Then  for  the  first  time  the  whole  of  the  dread  suspi 
cion  flashed  over  him.  He  seemed  now  to  understand  at 
a  glance  what  all  this  meant. 

"  Tell  me  the  whole,  then  !"  he  commanded  them. 
"  Upon  whom  is  it  charged  that  I  have  committed  this 
crime  ?" 

"  Henry  Dollar  ;  your  own  cousin,"  was  the  answer. 

"  It  is  enough,"  returned  Duncan,  in  a  tone  of  unaf 
fected  sorrow.  "  I  will  go  with  you  willingly.  But  I 
wish  you  to  understand  me — I  ana  innocent — perfectly 
innocent !" 

The  better  to  quiet  their  own  fears,  they  proposed  to 
slip  a  pair  of  handcuffs  on  his  wrists.  He  assured  them 
that  would  be  quite  unnecessary ;  yet  if  they  entertained 
even  the  most  trifling  fears  for  his  escape,  he  would  cer 
tainly  consent  to  be  ironed.  And  while  they  were  per 
forming  the  task,  they  could  not  but  secretly  admire  the 
proud  bearing  that  nothing  but  his  own  lofty  sense  of  in 
nocence  could  have  begotten.  From  the  studious  quiet 
of  his  little  apartment,  therefore,  they  bore  him  away  to 
the  sterner  custody  of  prison  walls,  there  to  await  action 
by  the  properly  constituted  authorities. 

That  was  his  first  night  in  a  felon's  cell.  He  paced  the 
floor  for  some  time  after  his  entrance  within  the  four  chill 
and  repulsive  walls,  and  finally  seated  himself  on  the  little 
bed  spread  out  upon  its  iron  frame.  A  light  twinkled  on 
a  stand  in  the  further  corner,  making  the  gloom  more  op 
pressive.  The  four  walls,  with  the  low,  dungeony  ceiling, 


ACCUSER    AND    ACCUSED.  349 

made  his  flesh  creep  coldly,  and  almost  stifled  his  breath 
ing. 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  he,  in  a  low  voice,  "  better  even  so,  if 
one  has  but  the  assurance  of  his  innocence  !"  and  he 
threw  himself  down  prone  upon  the  bunk. 

It  was  long  afterward  when  he  went  to  sleep,  with 
no  feeling  like  oppressiveness  at  his  conscience — with  no 
load  on  his  heart — and  with  the  heavy  recollection  of  no 
great  guilt  to  drag  around  with  his  thoughts  wherever 
they  journeyed.  He  had  been  troubled,  and  tnnibled 
deeply  j^et  at  no  moment  had  he  wanted  strength  to 
fortify  himself.  He  reposed  on  a  feeling  of  security  that 
nothing  but  complete  innocence  could  have  given  him. 

The  next  moi*ning  he  was  taken  before  a  magistrate  of 
police,  and  examined  touching  the  matter  of  which  he 
was  accused.  What  could  exceed  his  astonishment — 
even  if  it  did  not  rise  to  absolute  indignation — to  find 
that  Mr.  Jacob  Dollar  himself  appeared  against  him,  and 
was  in  fact  his  loudest  and  most  strenuous  accuser !  Little 
facts  had  been  carefully  collected  and  collated ;  minute 
and  seemingly  unimportant  circumstances  were  patched 
and  strung  together ;  unworthy  suspicions — such  as  could 
hardly  come  from  less  than  a  bad  man  himself — were 
adroitly  glossed  over  with  a  semblance  of  truth  and  real 
ity;  and  a  chain  of  isolated  incidents  and  occurrences 
was  so  ingenuously  linked  together — seemingly  without  a 
break  or  so  mugh  as  a  flaw — that  Duncan  actually  started 
in  half  alarm  on  seeing  these  evidences  of  crime  adduced 
against  him,  unable,  too,  to  put  against  them  all  any 
thing  more  than  the  simple  protestation  of  his  innocence. 

This  was  well  as  far  as  it  went ;  but,  unfortunately,  it 
fell  far  short  of  the  weight  required  to  overbalance  the 
plausible  evidence  of  the  accusation.  So  he  was  remand 
ed  by  the  magistrate  to  prison,  to  await  his  trial  before 


350  ACCUSER    AND    ACCUSED. 

the  appropriate  tribunal.  And  with,  confusion  of  face  he 
was  conducted  back  to  his  cell,  his  heai-t  bursting  with 
the  feelings  he  was  not  allowed  to  express. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day  his  cell-door  was 
opened,  and  the  keeper  ushered  in  a  female.  Duncan 
was  sitting  moodily  in  the  only  chair  the  apartment  con 
tained,  vainly  trying  to  comprehend  and  more  thoroughly 
realize  his  fearful  situation. 

As  the  lady  entered  he  gazed  earnestly  in  her  face  for  a 
moment,  and  then  hastily  rose  from  his  seat  and  offered  it 
to  her.  Evidently,  in  that  dim  and  uncertain  light,  he  could 
not, see  her  distinctly  enough  to  make  out  who  she  was. 

"Duncan,"  at  once  spoke  the  female,  aware  that  he 
did  not  recognize  her,  "  don't  you  know  me  ?" 

He  approached  nearer,  and  looked  fixedly  in  her  face. 
Immediately  he  threw  up  his  clasped  hands,  and  called 
aloud,  "  Ellen !  Is  it  you,  Ellen  ?  Have  you  come  to 
accuse  me,  too  ?" 

"  No,  Duncan ;  no.  Only  be  calm  a  little  while.  I 
came  to  hear  from  your  own  lips  what  all  this  meant.  I 
must  know.  If  you  can  quiet  my  fears,  oh,  Duncan  !  do 
so  at  once  !  Yet  I  would  know  only  the  truth  !  Do  not 
deceive  me  !  Let  me  still  continue  to  trust  you,  even  if 
your  hands  are  stained  with  another's  blood  " 

As  she  paused  she  threw  an  impressive  glance  toward 
the  turnkey,  which  he  seemed  at  once  to  understand,  and 
withdrew  from  the  apartment. 

"  Oh,  Ellen !  Ellen !"  groaned  the  young  man.  "  How 
your  heart  must  revolt  at  a  scene  like  this !  This  mon 
strous  accusation — how  it  must  change  all  your  feelings 
toward  me  !  Wretch  that  I  am,  to  be  the  cause  of  drag 
ging  you  down,  down  into  the  deep  of  this  infamy !" 

"  Do  not  think  of  that,  Duncan.  Listen  only  to  the 
secret  whispers  of  your  own  conscience.  What  that  tells 


ACCUSER    AND    ACCUSED.  351 

you  is  of  far  more  importance  than  any  sort  of  consolation 
I  or  any  one  else  could  ever  hope  to  give." 

"  I  know  it,  Ellen  !  I  know  it !"  he  returned,  with  a 
great  deal  of  passionate  feeling. 

"  Our  situation,"  she  continued,  "  is  a  peculiar  one.  I 
do  not  come  here  at  this  time,  Duncan,  to  accuse  you,  or 
to  upbraid  you  with  even  a  single  syllable.  You  ought 
to  know  my  heart  well  enough  to  believe  any  thing 
rather  than  that  of  me.  But  the  first  intelligence  of  this 
dreadful  matter  so  startled  me  that  I  knew  not  what  to 
do.  Desert  you,  and  when  you  were  only  accused — 
not  yet  proved  guilty-^how  could  I  ?  Where  should  I 
go  for  advice  ?  Whom  should  I  call  on  to  satisfy  me  any 
better  either  of  your  guilt  or  your  innocence  ?  I  was  in  a 
state  of  the  most  dreadful  perplexity  and  distress !" 

"  Oh,  Ellen !     Dear  Ellen !" 

"Suddenly  my  course  was  plainly  pointed  out  to  me. 
I  saw  it  all  marked  down  at  a  single  flash  of  my  thought. 
I  resolved  to  come  immediately  to  you,  and  first  of  all  to 
learn  from  your  own  lips  the  truth  or  falsehood  of  this 
great,  great  accusation.  Now,  Duncan,  you  will  tell  me 
the  whole.  Even  if  you  are  covered  with  guilt,  I  can  not 
wholly  banish  you  from  my  heart,  if  you  confess  to  me 
the  truth.  No — no,  Duncan,  I  must  only  pity  you — yes, 
pity  you  the  more  !" 

Her  eyes  were  dim  with  tears,  as  she  finished  speaking ; 
and  when  they  fell  on  the  uplifted  face  of  the  unhappy 
young  man,  she  saw  that  the  great  drops  were  likewise 
chasing  each  other  rapidly  down  his  cheeks.  For  a  little 
time  not  a  word  further  was  spoken.  He  took  her  hand 
gently  in  his  as  they  stood  there  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor,  and  she  bowed  her  head  upon  his  breast.  Their 
mingled  sobs  filled  the  little  cell  with  a  sorrow  to*  which 
its  twilight  gloom  seemed  a  peculiar  adaptation. 


352  ACCUSES    AND    ACCUSED. 

"  I  want  your  help,"  at  length  half  groaned  and  halfi 
sobbed  the  prisoner,  "  your  sympathy  !  I  must  have  it. 
Ellen,  or  I  can  not  live !" 

"  Only  tell  me  the  whole  truth  about  this  awful  crime," 
she  returned,  not  lifting  her  face  from  his  bosom.  "  Tell 
me  if  you  did  it !  Are  you  guilty,  Duncan  ?  Oh,  do 
not  keep  any  thing  from  me !  Let  me  know  ail ;  let  me 
know  the  very  worst !" 

"Ellen,  dear  Ellen,"  he  spoke,  his  voice  suddenly 
growing  calm,  "  you  shall  know  the  truth,  and  from  me, 
too,  I  am  innocent!  I  am  not  guilty  of  this  fearful 
crime  !  I  know  not  a  syllable  of  its  commission !  Do 
you  believe  me,  Ellen  ?" 

She  raised  her  head  slowly,  and  her  dimmed  eyes 
sought  his  face.  On  it  sat  enthroned  a  look  of  perfect 
tranquillity  and  composure.  A  sweet  light  seemed  in  a 
moment  to  have  shed  itself  over  all  his  features,  and  he 
stood  before  her  wonderfully  changed.  His  attitude  was 
firm  and  resolute.  His  head  sat  erectly  on  his  shoulders. 
He  wore  the  mien  of  one  whose  inmost  soul  had  furnished 
the  words  his  lips  had  just  spoken. 

"  Do  I  believe  you !"  she  repeated,  still  gazing  with  a 
a  look  of  blended  joy  and  anxiety,  which  it  is  impossible 
to  describe,  into  his  speaking  countenance.  "  Oh,  it  is 
such  bliss  to  me,  Duncan,  to  know  you  are  innocent! 
Speak  that  word  again ! — only  once  more !  It  sounds  so 
sweet  when  it  comes  from  you  !" 

"  As  I  live,"  repeated  he,  "  I  am  innocent !  My  heart 
does  not  accuse  me,  and  it  never  will !" 

Immediately  he  clasped  her  almost  lifeless  form  in  his 
arms,  and  held  her  there  till  the  passion  of  this  mutual 
joy  had  in  some  degree  exhausted  itself. 

The  day  ended  to  them  both  with  all  the  blessed  calm 
of  a  Sabbath.  Duncan  was  assured  of  her  undying  love, 


ACCUSER    AND    ACCUSED.  353 

and  she  of  his  perfect  innocence.     Nothing  could  strain 
apart  the  thrice-knit  bond  of  their  affection  now. 

Before  he  went  to  sleep  that  night,  and  long  enough 
after  Ellen  had  left  hirn  alone  again,  he  sat  at  a  little 
tahle  that  was  provided  him,  and  wrote  to  his  sister.  He 
gave  her  a  frank  statement  of  the  unfortunate  matter,  and 
begged  her  not  to  be  in  the  least  degree  troubled  ;  for  he 
felt  no  remorse  himself,  and  could  feel  none,  for  the  simple 
reason  that  he  was  haunted  with  no  consciousness  of 
guilt. 

The  second  day  after,  the  letter  was  placed  in  the 
hands  of  Alice,  while  she  was  sitting  in  the  pleasant 
shadow  before  her  little  door.  Mrs.  Polly  did  not  hap 
pen  to  see  her  when  the  letter  was  delivered,  nor  for 
some  time  afterward ;  so  the  poor  girl's  emotion  was  not 
visible  to  any  one.  She  ran  the  letter  through,  while 
her  heart  beat  with  a  fearful  tumult.  It  read  as  fol 
lows — brief,  under  all  the  circumstances,  yet  concise  and 
emphatic : 

"Is  PRISON. 

"Mr  OWN  DEAR  SISTER — I  hasten  to  tell  you  my 
self  of  the  unexpected  occurrences  of  the  past  two  days, 
preferring  that  you  should  receive  your  first  intelligence 
from  me.  Do  not  give  yourself  any  needless  alarm,  then, 
dear  Alice,  on  learning  that  I  have  been  an-ested,  and 
am  at  this  moment  confined  in  prison  to  await  my  trial. 
You  will,  of  course,  wonder  for  what  I  am  arrested. 
You  shall  certainly  know,  though  I  do  not  doubt  you — 
who  know  me  so  well — will  think  it  the  most  preposter 
ous  affair  it  is  possible  to  imagine. 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,  dear  Alice,  I  am  charged  with 
murder !  Do  not  start,  nor  shudder,  for  there  is  no  need 
of  it.  I  was  alarmed  at  first  myself;  but  my  mind  is  com 
posed  now.  My  conscience  fails  to  accuse  me,  and  that 


354  -ACCUSER    AND    ACCUSED. 

is  enough.  But  upon  whom  do  you  think  I  am  accused 
of  committing  this  crime  ?  Upon  my  own  cousin — Henry 
Dollar !  He  was  found  dead  in  the  public  streets  one 
evening,  and  as  it  was  known  that  we  were  on  not  at  all 
good  terms,  I  am  immediately  suspected  of  his  murder  ! 
On  my  examination  before  a  magistrate,  who  should  be 
there  to  thrust  the  charge  in  my  face  with  an  earnestness 
I  could  hardly  help  pitying  him  for,  but  Henry  Dollar's 
own  father ! 

"  I  am  entirely  at  a  loss  to  understand  what  proofs  can 
be  brought,  with  any  degree  of  success,  against  me, 
though  I  felt  at  first  a  little  alarmed  at  the  plausible  na 
ture  of  the  suspicious  circumstances  he  ingeniously  col 
lected  and  arranged  in  support  of  his  charge.  All  these, 
however, -must  in  the  end  fall  to  the  ground  of  them 
selves.  But  the  malice  with  which  that  man  seems  to 
pursue  me  every  where,  is  what  people  generally  know 
nothing  about,  and  can  not  understand.  It  was  but  a  few 
days  since  that  I  went  to  him,  as  I  then  told  him,  for  the 
last  time,  and  demanded  to  know  if  he  was  ready  to  settle 
the  estate  of  our  mother  upon  you,  as  I  before  suggested. 
He  utterly  refused  to  do  any  thing  about  it,  and  in  fact 
drove  me  from  his  presence  in  a  storm  of  rage.  I  can 
see,  I  think,  a  close  connection  between  that  event  arid 
my  present  situation.  But  who  would  believe  now  what 
I  might  have  to  say  of  him  ?  No,  dear  Alice,  I  must  be 
dumb,  and  hope  for  a  release  only  through  the  kindness 
of  the  Providence  I  have  always  trusted! 

"But  in  all  this  tribulation,  I  am  supported  by  the  con 
tinued  love  of  one  whose  affection  I  have  long  labored  to 
deserve,  and  one  whom  you  would  even  now  delight  to 
call  '  sister.'  Ellen  Worthington — for  you  should  at  this 
time  know  her  name — is  my  soul's  surest  strength.  She 
believes  in  my  innocence,  and  I  yet  live  in  her  love.  Oh, 


ACCUSER    AND    ACCUSED.  355 

Alice !  if  you  could  but  know  what  happiness  I  am  still, 
allowed  to  enjoy,  in  feeling  the  assurance  that  the  purest 
heart  in  all  the  world  still  believes  my  own  to  be  inno 
cent  of  all  wrong !  This  it  is  that  consoles  me  in  the 
midst  of  such  distressing  circumstances ! 

*         *         ****         %         %         % 

"  Write  me  as  soon  as  you  can,  dear  sister,  and  prom 
ise  me  solemnly  that  you  will  not  sorrow  for  my  present 
misfortunes,  but  rather  believe  that  out  of  them  all  I  shall 
at  last  come  to  a  greater  victory.  My  love  to  good  Mrs. 
Polly ;  tell  her  from  me  there  is  no  need  to  despair.  A 
better  feeling  is  the  one  needed  now. 

"  Always  your  devoted  brother, 

"  DUNCAN  MOKROW." 

Alice  finished  reading  the  letter,  and  suffered  it  to  fall 
tremblingly  into  her  lap.  "  Oh,  if  he  should  be  found 
guilty!"  her  heart  silently  said -to  her.  And  she  finally 
put  her  bonnet  on  and  walked  rapidly  away  from  the 
cottage. 

Passing  through  the  village  street,  she  turned  off  hast 
ily  into  the  road  that  conducted  to  the  house  of  Mr. 
Rivers,  and  toiled  up  the  gradual  ascent  till  she  reached 
the -spot.  The  first  one  she  asked  to  see  was  Martha.  She 
knew  just  where  to  go  for  sympathy  hi  a  time  like  that. 

Martha  accosted  her  in  the  door,  and  the  poor  dumb 
girl  eagerly  took  her  hands  and  burst  into  tears.  Oh, 
the  tears  of  those  whose  tongues  can  not  express  their 
sorrows !  What  griefs  touch  the  feeling  heart  m<ore 
deeply  than  theirs !  Martha's  eyes  immediately  filled, 
through  nothing  but  pure  sympathy.  Alice  led  her 
friend  to  a  seat  on  the  piazza-bench,  and,  drawing  the 
letter  from  its  place  against  her  burning  heart,  gave  it 
her  to  read. 


356  ACCUSER    AND    ACCUSED. 

Words  are  hardly  sufficient  to  describe  the  mingled 
tumult  of  feelings  with  which  the  intelligence  contained 
in  the  letter  was  conveyed  to  her  mind.  Alice's  own 
brother  charged  with  a  crime  so  fearful  as  that  of  mur 
der  !  And  her  own  dear  friend,  Ellen  Worthington,  be- 
trothe"d  to  the  one  who  stood  thus  accused  !  It  was  pre 
posterous — nay,  it  seemed  even  impossible. 

She  hurried  away  to  acquaint  her  sister  Mary  with 
what  she  had  just  learned,  and  both  returned  to  their 
visitor  on  the  piazza  to  offer  her  their  silent,  though  none 
the  less  deep,  sympathy.  Great  tears  stood  in  the  eyes 
of  the  mute,  glittering  evidences  of  her  inward  wretch 
edness.  Martha  sat  down  close  beside  her,  and  the 
afflicted  girl  instinctively  took  her  hand  again,  as  if  it 
were  some  secret  link  binding  her  to  her  friend's  heart. 
And  in  the  silence  that  dwelt  all  around  her  she  sat  and 
gazed  upon  the  floor,  never  moving  her  eyes,  and  never 
changing  that  indescribably  sad  expression  of  her  coun 
tenance. 

The  sisters  were  too  astonished  to  say  much  as  yet. 
The  intelligence  of  this  unfortunate  connection  of  their 
friend  Ellen  with  such  an  affair,  though  it  was  most  re 
mote  and  indirect,  struck  a  sort  of  dismay  to  .their  hearts, 
and  they  inwardly  wondered  what  might  come  next. 
This  was  the  first  time,  too,  they  had  ever  had  reason  to 
suspect  so  much 'as  an  acquaintance  between  Ellen  and 
the  brother  of  Alice.  And  now  it  flashed  suddenly  over 
the  mind  of  Martha,  the  whole  of  it :  this  was  the  cause 
of  -Ellen's  strange  interest  in  Alice  during  the  first  visit 
they  paid  the  little  cottage  in  her  company  !  Here  was 
the  clear  explanation  of  what  at  the  time  seemed  so  mys 
terious  and  unusual ! 

Of  course  the  news  of  Duncan's  arrest  for  his  cousin's 
murder  speedily  reached  every  ear  about  Draggledew 


ACCUSER    AND    ACCUSED.  357 

Plain ;  and  not  a  single  person,  old  or  young,  was  left  out 
of  the  great  circle  that  held  up  its  united  hands  in  horror, 
or  attempted  its  thorough  and  satisfactory  discussion. 
The  excitement  there  was  quite  as  intense  as  it  was 
nearer  to  the  real  scene  of  the  action  itself. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

A    SECRET    OUT. 

MR.  ARTHUR  HOLLIDAT  sat  in  the  little  arbor  again 
with  Martha,  on  one  of  the  most  golden  days  of -Autumn. 
A  soft  haze  draped  the  landscape,  enrobing  the  distant 
hills,  brilliant  with  the  varied  forest  dyes,  with  a  beauty 
that  cheated  the  senses  out  of  the  reality,  and  lulled  the 
thoughts  into  a  rapturous  reverie.  The  fruits  all  about 
in  the  orchard  were  yellow  among  the  boughs,  bending 
them  down  nearly  to  the  ground.  Only  the  fall  flowers 
erected  their  stems  and  displayed  their  rich  garniture  of 
blossoms  along  the  borders,  or  in  knots  about  the  hearts 
of  the  beds  ;  while  leaves,  long  sere,  lay  strewn  here  and 
there  in  the  paths,  and  sad-voiced  crickets  were  slowly 
letting  their  little  clocks  run  down  in  the  faded  and  dry 
ing  grass. 

The  spirits  of  the  youthful  lovers  certainly  were  tinged 
with  the  soft  coloring  of  melancholy  that  belonged  to  the 
time,  and  for  a  long  while  they  sat  within  the  little  arbor 
both  silent  and  thoughtful.  Martha  would  perhaps  have 
broken  this  silence  frequently  enough,  but  she  thought 
she  discovered  a  look  in  the  countenance  of  her  compan 
ion  that  steadily  forbade  her. 

It  was  only  after  quite  a  long  interval,  indeed,  that  he 
spoke  himself.  "  Martha,"  said  he,  and  his  voice  was  so 
sadly  solemn  that  she  started'at  the  sound,  "  my  thoughts 
have  troubled  me  much  since  the  hour  of  our  betrothal !" 


A     SECRET     OUT.  359 

"  Are  you  not  so  happy,  then  ?" 

"  Oh,  not  because  of  that — not  for  that ;  but  I  have  a 
burden  to  carry  about  with  me  that — that — " 

"  But  may  I  not  share  it  with  you  ?  Can  not  I  help 
you  carry  the  load  ?" 

A  pause  again. 

"  Yes,  dear  Martha,"  said  he,  looking  in  her  face  with 
eyes  glowing  with  affection — "  yes,  you  shall  share  it 
with  me,  if  you  will.  But  I  accuse  myself  because  I  have 
not  told  you  all  this  before.  Perhaps" — and  he  hesitated 
a  little — "  you  may  not  feel  toward  me  just  as  you  do 
now  when  you  come  to  hear  the  whole  of  the  history  I 
have  to  relate." 

"  Arthur !  what  can  you  mean  ?  Do  you  think  I  am 
one  to—" 

"  No,  no,  Martha ;  I  do  not  misjudge  the  heart  you 
have  given  to  me.  I  hope  I  appreciate  the  whole  of 
your  noble  and  truthful  nature.  Yet  when  I  look  back 
over  the  long  history  that  till  this  day  has  been  kept  from 
you,  and  remember  that  you  should  have  known  it  all, 
every  syllable,  long  before  you  plighted  me  the  richest  of 
your  affections,  how  can  I  help  accusing  myself,  and  most 
severely,  too,  for  falling  so  far  short  of  my  duty?" 
•  "You  perplex  me,  Arthur,"  she  returned,  uneasily  ;  "I 
can  not  think  how  any  secret  you  have  hitherto  seen 
proper  to  keep  from  me,  especially  if  it  concerns  yourself 
more  than  it  does  me,  can  operate  to  my  harm." 

"  Perhaps  it  might,  indirectly." 

"  Then  pray  tell  me  at  once,  and  rid  both  of  us  of  this 
suspense.  What  do  you  refer  to,  Arthur  ?" 

"It  is  nothing  less  than  the  one  great  secret  of  my  life. 
Unquestionably  you  have  yourself  suspected  there  was 
some  strange  way  to  my  early  days  that  you  had  not  yet 
explored.  You  never  heard  me  speak  of  my  youth  or  of 


360  A    SECRET    OUT. 

ray  friends.  Martha,  I  have  had  no  friends.  Since  the 
day  I  was  six  years  old  I  have  been  but  the  plaything  of 
circumstances,  tossed  hither  and  thither  as  the  winds  of 
fortune  veered  and  shifted,  until  I  have  finally  thrown 
anchor  in  this  quiet  haven  here. 

"  It  is  of  my-youth,  my  connections,  my  parents,  I  want 
to  speak.  You  shall  have  the  whole  story  in  a  few  words, 
for  it  will  only  come  down  to  the  time  when,  a  mere  child, 
I  Avas  thrown  on  the  world.  Hear  it  now,  Martha,  and 
then  tell  me  in  all  frankness  if  the  discovery  will  hi  the 
least  change  your  feelings  toward  me." 

She  looked  a  tender  rebuke  at  him,  but  made  no  reply. 

"  To  begin  where  I  should,  then,"  continued  he,  "  and 
in  fact  where  I  shall  only  end — my  father  is  a  crimintil! 
That  was  the  sternest  truth  my  mother's  lips  ever  taught 
me !  It  sunk  itself  at  once  into  my  memory — nay,  into 
my  whole  nature,  and  in  a  great  degree  shaped  the  course 
of  my  after-life. 

"  What  my  father's  name  was  I  do  not  remember,  even 
li  I  was  ever  told.  The  crime  he  was  guilty  of  was  com 
mitted  before  I  could  well  fix  these  things  in  my  mind. 
I  only  knew  what  fny  mother  chose  to  tell  me ;  the  rest 
is  oblivion  to  me,  the  whole  of  it. 

"  The  crime  in  question  was  forgery.  My  father  had 
been  in  an  excellent  business,  and  was  believed  to  be  do 
ing  well.  His  friends  gathered  around  him,  and  his 
friendships  ripened  into  perpetual  enjoyments.  I  was  an 
only  child.  He  had  been  married  to  my  mother  but  a 
few  years,  and  every  thing  was  going  on  with  abundant 
prospects  of  prosperity.  He  was  contented  in  his  occu 
pation,  and  apparently  blessed  in  his  domestic  relations. 
Things  seemed  to  turn  out,  as  he  went  along,  about  as  he 
would  have  wished.  All  his  acquaintance  congratulated 
him  on  his  apparent  success. 


A    SECRET    OUT.  361 

"  But  there 's  no  lane  that  is  without  a  turning.  From 
some  unfortunate  combination  of  circumstances,  or  from 
an  unfortunate  speculation  that  just  at  that  crisis  over 
whelmed  him,  or  some  other  cause  that  I  may  never  have 
heard  of,  he  found  himself  suddenly  crippled  in  his  re 
sources,  and  obliged  either  to  make  a  full  surrender  of 
his  property  for  his  creditor's  benefit,  or  do  something 
desperate  to  retrieve  his  fortunes. 

"  He  chose  the  latter  course,  and  committed  forgery ! 
Who  the  victim  of  his  iniquity  was  I  can  not  tell  you.  I 
never  heard,  and  I  am  certain  I  never  have  sought  to 
know  since  I  came  to  years  of  maturer  understanding. 
It  has  been  a  religious  principle  of  my  conduct  since, 
never  to  re-open  the  heait  of  the  calamity  that  at  so  ten 
der  aft  age  fell  on  my  mother  and  myself. 

"  I  was  told  by  my  mother  that  he  had  his  trial  before 
a  jury  of  his  countrymen.  Proof  of  his  guilt  was  too 
glaringly  plain  to  be  questioned.  The  very  instrument 
of  his  crime  was  produced  in  open  court.  Witnesses 
were  ready  to  cut  oif  all  possible  means  of  escape  for 
him,  and  to  hedge  about  him  the  snares  that  he  had 
framed  with  his  own  reckless  hand.  He  was  convicted, 
and  sentenced  to  seventeen  years  imprisonment  at  hard 
labor  in  the  State  Prison !  And  this  man  was  my  own 
father,  Martha  ! — this  guilty  criminal ! — this  inmate  of  a 
prison-cell !  Can  you  hear  me  thus  quietly,  when  you 
know  my  name  is  surrounded  with  such  associations  ?" 

"  Go  on ;  pray  go  on,"  answered  Martha,  much  moved 
by  the  unexpected  narrative. 

"  Not  long  after  his  sentence,  my  mother  determined 
on  a  step  that  she  thought  due  both  to  herself  and  her 
offspring.  She  was  fully  resolved  that  neither  herself, 
nor  any  living  child  of  hers,  should  share  the  disgrace 
my  father  had  brought  upon  his  own  head.  I  think  her 

16 


362  A    SECBET    OUT. 

sympathies  for  him  must  by  this  time  have  at.  died  out, 
to  enable  her  to  adopt  such  a  measure.  Most  wivea 
might  have  sorrowed  on  to  the  end.  But  she  did  not  do 
so  ;  or  if  she  did  it  was  such  a  secret  sorrow  that  none 
knew  of  its  influence  or  existence. 

"  Her  husband  being  already  a  convicted  criminal,  the 
law  allowed  her  a  divorce  without  any  further  trouble 
than  the  simple  proof  of  this ;  which  the  record  of  the 
criminal  court  abundantly  offered.  The  proof  was  pro 
duced,  and  the  divorce  granted. 

"  She  told  me  of  her  having  assumed  her  maiden  name 
again,  and  that  name  she  immediately  bestowed  upon, 
me.  In  truth  I  have  never  known  any  other.  Holliday 
will  be  my  name  while  I  live. 

"  It  was  hardly  more  than  a  year  after  this  great  event 
in  her  life  that  she  sickened  and  died.  Oh,  I  remember 
that  sad  experience  but  too  well  to  this  day !  I  can  go 
back  to  the  bedside  of  the  only  being  I  then  loved,  and 
see  her  pale  face  once  more,  and  catch  the  sound  of  her 
low  voice  as  she  spoke  words  of  such  tenderness  to  me. 
I  remember  too  well  what  a  big  sorrow  swelled  and 
burst  in  my  little  heart  then,  and  how  my  eyes  rained 
hot  tears  continually.  I  saw  her  hand  grow  thin  and 
shadow-like,  and  her  flesh  waste  slowly  from  her  cheek. 
Oh,  Martha,  as  I  live,  I  do  to  this  day  believe  that  it 
was  nothing  but  her  hidden  sorrow  that  was  consum 
ing  her !  I  can  now  understand  what  I  never  thought 
of  grasping  and  measuring  then.  I  think  I  can  appre 
ciate,  as  I  can  hardly  less  than  woi'ship,  the  stern  heroism 
with  which  she  concealed  her  agony,  and  went  about 
among  her  acquaintance  with  a  placid  countenance,  while 
her  side  was  pierced  with  cruel  arrows.  I  could  not  see 
it  then.  Perhaps  no  one  could  see  it  then.  But  I  can 
now. 


A    SECRET    OUT.  363 

- 

"And  my  dear  suffering  mother  died,  bequeathing  me 
to  the  world,  and  confidently  hoping  the  bequest  would 
not  be  flung  scornfully  away.  My  sun  sank  at  once  out  of 
sight.  The  light  of  my  heart  went  out  in  darkness.  I 
was  alone,  and  I  stumbled  slowly  along,  groping  blindly 
on  my  passage.  What  my  experiences  have  been  since 
that  time  of  early  trial,  what  fortunes  and  misfortunes 
have  kept  me  tossing  here  and  there  in  the  seething  sea 
of  the  world,  it  would  be  uninteresting  for  me  to  relate ; 
and  it  would  all  be  of  no  profit  even  if  I  did.  * 

"  But  this  dark  mystery  that  has  thrown  its  long  shadow 
over  my  whole  life,  and  will  shadow  it  to  its  very  end — 
this  I  thought  it  imperative  that  you  should  know.  I 
only  upbraid  myself  for  not  telling  you  of  it  before,  when 
you  should  certainly  have  known  the  whole  of  my  history. 
It  might  have  modified  your  feelings  toward  me — perhaps 
changed  them  entirely." 

"Arthur!"  reprovingly  exclaimed  the  gii'l,  hurt  at  such 
a  suspicion. 

"  Pardon  me  ;  I  would  not  willingly  wound  you ;  rather 
would  I  inflict  chastisement  on  my  own  self,  for  I  know 
that  I  deserve  it  severely.  But  will  you  tell  me,  dear 
Martha,  that  you  can  reconcile  yourself  to  an  alliance  for 
life  with  one  who  carries  in  his  own  blood  the  taint  of  a 
criminal?  Can  you  continue  to  love  me,  nay,  will  you 
not  rather  feel  inclined  to  scorn  me,  now  that  so  humili 
ating  a  confession  has  been  made  to  you  ?" 

"  Arthur,  do  you  know  my  nature  yet  ?  You  wrong 
me !  You  wrong  me  more  than  you  can  be  aware  !" 

"  Forgive  me  for  it !  Forgive  me,  I  beg  of  you !  In 
my  own  feeling  of  abasement  I  could  not  help  forgetting 
what  was  due  to  another.  If  I  could  but  be  assured, 
Martha,  that  you  love  me  in  spite  of  ah1  this !" 

Hers  was  too  noble  a  nature  to  be  swayed  by  consid- 


864  ,          A    SECRET    OUT. 

orations  such  as  this.  She  had  given  her  affections  to 
him — not  to  the  fortunate  circumstances  with  which  he 
promised  to  be  surrounded,  not  to  his  friends,  or  to  his 
family  connections.  But  a  single  object  filled  her  heai*t, 
and  that  object  was  himself.  Come  misfortune  or  come 
contumely,  she  could  bear  up  bravely  under  it  all,  so  she 
stood  by  the  side  of  him. 

That  was  an  hour  of  new  joy  to  the  heart  of  the  young 
author,  in  which  he  almost  experienced  the  delight  of  the 
hour  of  his  betrothal.  He  beheld  traits  in  the  character 
of  Martha  that  he  had  never  been  able  to  detect  be 
fore.  She  seemed  to  send  out  all  about  her  an  irra 
diating  influence,  that  bespoke  the  exalted  purity  of  her 
nature  and  the  strength  of  its  affections. 

" But  your  father,"  said  she,  after  a  pause;  "has  not 
the  time  expired  during  which  he  was  to  suffer  imprison 
ment  ?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Arthur,  thoughtfully;  "he  ought 
to  have  been  released  last  winter,  if  I  have  calculated 
rightly." 

It  was  surely  a  trying  point  to  press,  and  Martha  would 
not  have  troubled  him,  except  for  the  activity  of  her  own 
sympathies.  .- 

"  And  can  not  you  discover  him  now  ?  Have  you  never 
seen  him  since  his  release  ?" 

"  No,"  was  the  answer. 

And  the  conversation  on  that  subject  stopped  there. 

It  was  after  tea  on  the  same  evening  when  Maitha 
descried  her  father  walking  alone  at  his  leisure  down  in 
the  orchard  ;  and  she  hurried  off  after  him  with  a  secret 
at  her  heart  which  she  wished  to  communicate.  He 
received  her  with  his  usual  pleasant  greeting,  .observ 
ing  the  smile  that  kept  playing  continually  about  her 
mouth. 


A    SECRET    OUT.  365 

"  Now  I  have  got  at  the  heart  of  the  mystery  that 
troubled  you  so,  father  !" 
•He  stopped  short,  and  looked  inquiringly  into  her  face. 

"  What  mystery,  my  daughter  ?" 

"  Oh,  of  Arthur's  life.  I  know  it  all,  now.  I  know 
the  whole.  He  has  told  me." 

"  Well,  and  what  is  it  ?"  His  curiosity  was  not  a  little 
piqued  at  her  manner,  as  well  as  with  her  words.  "  I  al 
ways  said,  you  recollect,  that  there  was  something  out 
of  the  ordinary  way  locked  up  in  his  life ;  and  it  seems 
you  have  at  last  found  it  out !" 

"  Yes,  father  ;  he  has  this  very  day  told  me  of  it  all." 

"  And  pray  what  is  it  ?  Sit  down  here  on  this  rock  by 
the  side  of  me,  and  tell  me  the  whole  of  it.  Am  I  not  as 
interested  as  you,  my  daughter  ?" 

So  they  seated  themselves  on  a  rock  in  the  quiet 
orchard,  and  Martha  went  through  the  narration. 
Not  a  point  that  was  given  her  was  slighted  or  for 
gotten. 

"  Is  it  possible — is  it  possible  that  this  is  all  so  ?"  said 
Mr.  Rivers,  rising  hastily  to  his  feet  on  the  conclusion  of 
his  daughter's  narration. 

She  looked  up  into  his  face.  It  wore  an  expression  of 
deep  and  powerful  excitement. 

"  Why,  father  ?  Does  it  trouble  you  ?  Will  it  change 
your  feelings  toward  Arthur  ?"  She  stood  on  her  feet, 
too,  and  had  lain  her  hand  upon  his  arm.  "  Shall  you 
wish  that  I  had  never  seen  him,  father?  Shall  you 
want — " 

"  No,  no  ;  nothing  of  that,  ray  child.  It's  nothing,  now. 
I  could  not  help  my  feelings  very  well,  you  know.  But 
I  have  controlled  them  now." 

This  was  all  the  answer  she  got  from  him.  He  in 
stantly  changed  the  topic,  and  drawing  his  daughter's 


366  A    SECRET    OUT. 

arm  through  his  own  they  walked  away  in  the  direction 
of  the  house. 

But  the  startled  manner  of  her  father  troubled  her 
still.  It  weighed  more  and  more  heavily  on  her-  heart. 
Was  it  possible  that  he  could  not  call  down  a  blessing  on 
this  proposed  union  now  that  he  had  unraveled  the  mys 
tery  of  the  young  author's  heart?  It  was  this  alone 
that  troubled  her. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

LIFE      IN     THE     BALANCE. 

jAa  the  public  trial,  so  momentous  an  event  to  Mr. 
Dollar  as  well  as  to  Duncan,  drew  near,  the  feeling  of 
the  community  enlisted  itself  more  and  more  intensely 
on  behalf  of  each  of  the  parties  connected  with  the  same, 
and  watched  for  the  approach  of  the  day  that  should  de 
cide  the  prisoner's  innocence  or  guilt,  almost  as  eagerly 
as  he  did  himself.  People  began  to  form  themselves  into 
parties  in  relation  to  the  subject,  espousing  such  a  view 
as  their  instinctive  feelings  of  sympathy  or  generosity 
naturally  ^suggested.  Some  thought  the  youthful  prisoner 
could  be  nothing  less  than  a  monster  of  brutality ;  and 
secretly  congratulated  themselves  and  the  community 
that  he  was  to  be  put  at  length  beyond  the  possibility  of 
further  mischief  and  crime.  Others  again  extended  noth 
ing  toward  his  unhappy  condition  but  the  white  arms 
of  their  tenderest  compassion,  and  hoped  that  even  if  he 
were  proved  guilty — which  could  not  be  made  out  be 
yond  every  peradventure — he  at  least  might  be  spared  a 
cruel  and  ignominious  death  on  the  scaffold. 

Mr.  Dollar  in  no  way  relaxed  his  energetic  efforts  to 
procure  the  condemnation  of  his  nephew,  and  his  sub 
sequent  punishment.  Litense  grief  had  in  a  degree  given 
way  to  intense  hatred,  and  a  burning  desire  for  revenge. 
His  ordinary  powers  of  mind  seemed  to  have  been  sud- 


368  LIFE    IN    THE    BALANCE. 

denly  unseated,  and  their  place  usurped  by  the  basest,  the 
narrowest,  and  most  groveling  passions. 

He  had  engaged  one  of  the  ablest  advocates  in  capital* 
trials  that  the  whole  city  afforded,  and  enjoined  it  upon 
him  over  and  over  again  to  see  to  it  that  that  this  mur 
derer  of  his  son  was  not  permitted  to  escape.  Day  after 
day  he  rushed  breathlessly  into  the  office  of  his  lawyer ; 
and  again  and  again  he  would  ask  him  if  he  felt  perfectly 
certain  of  his  ability  to  convict  the  prisoner. 

"  Recollect,"  he  said,  "  that  I  employ  you,  sir,  to  assist 
the  attorney  for  the  State ;  but  you  shall  so  exert  your 
great  talents  that  you  shall  feel  sure  of  obtaining  a  ver 
dict  for  me,  even  if  you  had  no  such  assistance !  I  want 
you  to  take  the  whole  responsibility  of  my  case  upon 
your  own  shoulders ;  if  you  gain  it  for  me  you  shall  be 
paid  whatever  you  desire,  even  if  it  is  to  the  last  dollar 
of  my  fortune !" 

With  almost  every  visit,  too,  he  would  go  through  a 
regular  rehearsal  of  the  several  points  of  his  story>  seem 
ing  to  fear  lest  something  might  be  inadvertently  over 
looked  and  forgotten.  All  the  probabilities  and  pos 
sibilities  of  the  young  man's  innocence  he  stoutly  argued 
down  with  his  specious  reasoning,  battling  with  insane 
energy  against  the  very  slightest  hope  of  his  final  ac 
quittal,  or  even  of  the  commutation  of  his  sentence  after 
it  should  be  pronounced. 

Ellen  clung  to  the  person  and  the  fortunes  of  Duncan 
through  the  whole  of  these  trying  circumstances  with 
heroic  devotion.  Each  day  she  was  regularly  admitted 
to  his  cell,  and  passed  the  hours  allowed  her  there  in  the 
sacred  duty  of  comforting  and  strengthening  his  heart. 
Her  purpose  was  simple  and  direct.  The  deep  love  she 
bore  him — deeper  now  by  far  in  the  great  gulf  of  mis 
fortune  into  which  he  had  been  plunged — shone  out  in 


LIFE    IN    THE    BALANCE.  369 

her  self-sacrificing  conduct  with  all  the  radiance  of  a 
burning  star.  It  could  not  b".t  exalt  its  object,  criminal 
as  he  might  yet  be  believed,  by  rt-ason  of  its  own  pure 
and  ennobling  attributes.  She  shrank  from  sharing  no 
trial  he  was  called  to  undergo.  She  made  herself  happy 
in  helping  to  carry  the  overwhelming  load  he  was  ordered 
to  sustain.  At  every  turn  of  his  lacerated  feelings  her 
own  quick  and  warm  sympathies  met  him,  ready  with 
their  balm  and  oil  to  heal  the  wounds  which  she  wept  to 
see  so  cruelly  inflicted. 

Further  than  this,  she  joined  with  him  in  writing  most 
consoh'ng  and  encouraging  Avords  to  Ah'ce,  entreating  her 
to  remain  hi  quiet  where  she  was,  and  directing  her  heart 
to  the  only  source  of  strength  and  sustenance  on  which 
they  could  all  confidently  rely.  "  Alice,  dear  Alice,rt  she 
would  write,  "  only  be  calm.  Do  not  come  to  be  a  wit 
ness  yourself  of  our  mutual  affliction  and  suffering,  but 
pray  for  us  both  in  the  solitude  of  your  own  little  cham 
ber,  and  hold  fast  to  your  living  belief  in  your  dear 
brother's  innocence.  God  will  never  let  the  guilty  go 
nor  the  innocent  suffer.  This  is  what  feeds  my  heart  and 
makes  me  strongp-  than  even  our  accusers !" 

Ellen's  fortune,  too,  was  freely  put  to  the  sei'vice  of  him 
she  loved  so  devotedly,  and  the  ablest  counsel  she  could 
command  for  his  defense  were  immediately  called  to  the 
task.  Besides  this,  the  former  employers  of  Duncan  had 
lost  none  of  their  old  confidence  in  his  integrity,  and  be 
lieved  not  less  at  this  time  in  his  innocence  than  they  did 
in  the  wicked  and  selfish  character  of  his  accuser.  And 
they 'left  no  stone  unturned  by  means  of  which  his  ac 
quittal  might  be  fairly  secured. 

The  day  of  the  trial  c.%ne  on.  It  was  in  early  fall,  the 
pleasantest  of  all  the  seasons  in  the  year.  As  he  was  con 
ducted  from  his  place  of  -confinement  to  the  court-room, 

16* 


370  LIFE    IN    THE    BALANCE. 

he  could  not  refrain  from,  casting  his  eye  upward  into  the 
grand  autumnal  sky,  and  his  soul  fervently  thanked  God 
for  the  supreme  love  of  beauty  that  was  still  left  him. 
His  vision  took  one  broad  sweep  across  the  sunlit  heav 
ens,  and  a  thousand  secret  influences,  that  made  him  res 
olute  and  strong,  stole  into  his  heart.  He  walked  with 
a  firm  step  up  the  stone  stairs  that  led  to  the  court-room, 
neither  trembling,  nor  halting,  nor  betraying  any  con 
fusion  of  feeling.  He  felt  armor-proof  against  the  boldest 
charges,  no  matter  whence  they  came,  nor  however 
strongly  they  might  be  supported.  As  he  reached  the 
dock  and  took  his  seat,  he  felt  rather  than  saw  the  in 
fluence  of  the  gaze  that  was  directed  upon  him;  and 
while  it  had  not  the  power  to  unnerve  or  unduly  abash 
him,  it  did  work  to  give  a  calm  and  strong  serenity  to 
his  demeanor,  and  caused  the  very  placidity  of  his  counte 
nance  to  radiate  nothing  but  an  atmosphere  of  unsullied 
innocence. 

The  judge  was  soon  in  his  seat.  The  lawyers  were  at 
their  places  within  the  crescent-shaped  "fer,  their  books 
and  writing  materials  spread  around  them  over  its  cover 
ing  of  faded  green  baize.  The  officer  called -the  assembly 
to  order,  and  duly  proceeded  to  open  the  court  after  the 
legal  form.  The  case  was  called.  Forthwith  began  the 
work  of  impanneling  a  jury,  who  were  taken  one  by  one 
from  the  mass  of  the  bystanders.  Duncan  was  reminded 
of  his  liberty  to  challenge  peremptorily  a  certain  number 
of  those  called,  but  he  seemed  too  indifferent  to  exercise 
it,  and  could  see  no  advantage  in  doing  so,  even  if  he  had 
been  in  the  least  inclined  that  way. 

The  attorney  for  the  State  opened  the  case  for  the 
prosecution,  and  in  his  overweening  zeal  to  add  another 
wreath  to  his  own  reputation  by  the  sacrifice  even  of  a  fel 
low-creature's  life,  who  might,  too,  be  quite  as  guiltless  of 


LIFE    IN    THE    BALANCE.  371 

the  crime  as  himself,  for  aught  he  really  knew,  he  went 
far  out  of  his  ordinary  course,  and  left  the  level  ground 
of  plain  statements  and  reasonable  propositions  for  the 
higher  land  and  the  more  exhilarating  air  of  appeals  to 
the  feelings  of  the  jury. 

He  proposed  to  prove  in  the  course  of  this  trial,  that 
for  a  long  time  previous  to  the  commission  of  the  murder, 
a  bitter  feud  had  existed  between  the  victim  and  the 
prisoner ;  that  in  addition  to  this  fact,  the  prisoner  had 
had  violent  words  with  the  father  of  the  murdered  man, 
which  were  the  cause  of  his  being  turned  summarily  out 
of  doors,  and  of  his  making  sava*ge  threats  of  revenge 
against  both  Mr.  Dollar  and  his  family ;  that  on  the  par 
ticular  night  when  the  young  man  lost  his  life,  the  prisoner 
was  seen  in  the  near  vicinity  of  the  spot  where  the  deed 
was  committed,  with  a  heavy  cane  in  his  hand  ;  that,  fur 
thermore,  he  was  seen  in  conversation  with  the  deceased ; 
and  that  that  conversation  was  loud,  and  angry,  and  of  a 
violent  and  threatening  character ;  that  the  two  parties 
were  not  seen  to  separate ;  and  that  the  body  of  the  mur 
dered  man  was  at  length  discovered  not  a  great  ways 
distant  from  this  locality ;  from  all  which  the  inference 
was  irrefutable  that  he,  and  he  alone,  could  be  the  author 
of  the  crime. 

That  was  the  statement  of  the  case  in  its  distinct  out 
lines.  Of  course  there  were  innumerable  other  minute 
points  and  shades  of  testimony,  that  were  made  to  sup 
port  and  strengthen  this  carefully  constructed  frame 
work,  and  to  fill  in  compactly  the  crevices  that  so  gen 
eral  a  statement  must  have  left  open.  Not  a  particle  of 
evidence  that  could  by  .distortion  or  false  coloring  be 
made  to  bear  against  the  prisoner,  was  suffered  to  go  un 
improved.  The  attorney  for  the  State  manifestly  meant 
to  make  the  most  of  every  thing  he  could  lay  his  hands  or 


372  LIFE    IN    TUB    BALANCE. 

his  suspicions  upon.  Instead  of  standing  up  for  the 
holy  and  righteous  claims  of  Justice,  he  rather  seemed  to 
be  mad  with  the  same  insane  desire  to  convict  the  prisoner 
at  any  and  at  all  hazards,  that  spurred  on  Mr.  Dollar  him 
self  with  such  a  fearful  energy. 

Duncan  glanced  with  a  look  of  mild  sadness  over  the 
faces  of  the  throng,  as  this  summary  was  rehearsed  against 
him,  and  his  eyes  lighted  on  those  of  Ellen !  She  had 
followed  him  even  there.  Crowds,  and  illy-ventilated 
rooms,  and  the  rude  gaze  of  a  multitude — compassionate, 
it  might  be,  hi  its  very  rudeness — had  no  effect  to  break 
down  the  strength  of-the  devotion  that  Avas  able  to  carry 
her  through  all — yea,  to  the  verge  of  the  very  worst  and 
darkest  probability.  There  she  sat ;  her  eyes  fixed  closely 
upon  the  face  of  the  prisoner  ;  surrounding  him  with  the 
cloud  of  her  ever-moving,  ever-living  sympathies ;  and 
trying  as  best  she  could  to  strengthen  his  soul  with  the 
silent  magnetism  of  her  serene  expression  and  her  calm 
smile.  He  caught  the  meaning  of  her  look — of  her  unut 
terable  smile,  radiating  joy  to  his  heart  from  her  own, 
and  in  an  instant  his  nature  rose  superior  to  all  the  trials 
of  the  hour — rose  above,  far  above  all  thoughts  of  other 
men's  judgment,  and  all  fears  of  their  vindictiveness ;  and 
he  answered  her  smile. with  one  that  broke  out  like  a 
bright  halo  over  his  face,  and  for  the  moment  gave  him 
the  aspect  of  a  strong  and  noble  martyr. 

One  by  one  the  witnesses  were  called  by  the  govern 
ment,  and  questioned  as  to  their  knowledge  of  such  facts 
as  went  to  substantiate  the  charge  against  the  prisoner. 
They  gave  their  answers  clearly  and  with  distinctness, 
from  which  the  acute  and  sometimes  protracted  cross-ex 
amination  of  the  opposite  counsel  could  not  succeed  in 
swerving  them  a  syllable.  Each  witness  knew  just  so 
much,  and  could  testify  to  it ;  and  their  united  testimony, 


LIFE    IN    THE    BALANCE.  373 

it  was  calculated,  if  put  together  by  the  skillful  ingenuity 
of  the  counsel  for  prosecution,  would  make  a  net-work 
of  guilt  apparent  around  the  person  of  the  prisoner, 
through  which  not  even  the  most  learned  and  adroit  law 
yers  could  assist  him  to  escape.  Certainly — it  was  frankly 
confessed — certainly  this  would  be  a  clear  case  of  circum 
stantial  evidence ;  but  the  circumstances  were  so  strong 
against  the  prisoner — made  up  as  they  were  of  his  open- 
hatred  of  his  victim ;  of  his  defiant  language  to  his  father, 
and  his  subsequent  threats  of  vengeance  against  his  family, 
and  of  many  other  particles  of  proof  that  could  readily 
be  turned  to  good  account  by  the  prosecution — that  he 
could  be  convicted  as  easily  and  as  fairly  upon  the 
strength  of  them  alone  as  he  could  by  proof  direct,  posi 
tive,  and  undeniable. 

I  do  not  wish  to  repeat  the  long  and  wearying  progress 
of  the  day's  trial,  going  through  the  examination  of  the 
several  witnesses  in  their  ^lurn,  and  dwelling  with  a. mi 
nuteness  that  could  not  fail  to  be  tedious  to  the  reader, 
upon  the  shades  and  lights  that  checkered  the  case  from 
beginning  to  end ;  it  will  be  enough  to  narrate  the  im 
pressive  event  of  its  termination,  and  leave  the  rest  for 
the  reader's  warmer  sympathies  and  deeper  compassion. 

The  eminent  gentleman  whose  services  Mr.  Dollar  had 
secured  in  connection  with  those  of  the  attorney  for  the 
State,  made  an  effort  on  this  occasion  which  was  spoken 
of  as  being  beyond  any  in  which  during  all  his  professional 
career  he  had  hitherto  succeeded.  The  three  hours' 
speech  he  had  addressed  to  the  jury  was  confessed  to  be 
a  master-piece  of  forensic  skill  and  burning  eloquence. 
At  once  he  was  pathetic^ind  impassioned.  He  stirred  to 
tears  by  his  tender  appeals,  or  he  aroused  to  indignation 
by  his  earnest  tones  and  his  thundering  declamation. 
But  no  part  of  his  address  so  manifestly  touched  the 


374  LIFE    IN    THE    BALANCE. 

hearts  of  jury,  judge,  and  spectators — nay,  of  the  prisoner 
at  the  bar  himself — as  the  sad  and  desolate  picture  he 
drew  of  the  bereft  father's  hearth-stone  :  robbed  in  a 
moment  of  all  its  light  and  joy ;  buried  in  a  cloud  of  dark 
ness  that  in  this  life  would  never  be  lifted  again  ;  strewn 
recklessly  and  cruelly  with  the  white  ashes  of  a  complete 
devastation ;  the  pleasant  old  fires  all  burned  out  forever ; 
the  laughter  dead  and  frozen  ;  and  gloom  pressing  down 
upon  the  wretched  parent's  heart,  till  it  must  press  him 
finally  with  its  great  weight  into  his  lonely  grave  !  Few 
eyes  were  dry  when  this  appeal  was  made  with  such  suc 
cess  to  their  sympathies.  Its  influence  could  scarce  be 
less  than  controlling  upon  the  verdict  about  to  be  ren 
dered. 

But  one  of  the  two  lawyers  for  the  defense  attempted 
an  open  advocacy  of  the  prisoner's  cause  before  the  jury 
men,  the  other  having  confined  himself  to  the  manage 
ment  of  the  case  during  the  course  of  the  witnesses'  ex 
amination.  There  was  no  evidence  to  be  produced  in  his 
behalf,  the  labor  of  his  counsel  being  confined  to  the  rigid 
cross-examination  of  the  witnesses  on  the  other  side.  As 
their  testimony  could  be  but  triflingly  shaken,  the  coun 
sel  who  stood  up  for  Duncan  before  the  jury,  had  little  or 
nothing  to  oppose  to  these  circumstantial  proofs,  and  this 
plausible  presumption  to  his  client's  guilt,  save  the  un 
aided  efforts  of  his  own  talents  and  energy. 

When  his  turn  came  to  speak,  it  was  already  the  second 
day  of  the  trial.  He  entered  upon  his  labor  with  little 
of  the  exhilaration  and  positive  courage  that  betoken  a 
good  cause,  but  felt  obliged  repeatedly  to  spur  on  his 
energies  to  an  effort  he  could  not  all  the  while  help  think 
ing  to  be  only  mechanical.  Of  course  his  intellectual 
strength  imperceptibly  oozed  away,  and  he  sat  down  at 
last,  confident  that  he  had  not,  and  could  not,  help  the 


LIFE    IN    TIIE    BALANCE.  375 

cause  of  the  unfortunate  prisoner  at  all.  Others  saw  it, 
too  ;  and  the  influence  of  the  fact  reached  the  minds  of 
the  jury — a  body  whose  intellects  are  very  often  sec  first 
in  motion  by  their  feelings,  and  whose  opinions  strengthen 
with  the  positiveness  of  their  prejudices  The  attorney 
for  the  State  summed  up,  claiming  to  have  made  out  all 
that  he  proposed  at  the  outset,  and  calling  on  the  twelve 
men  who  sat  before  him  to  convict  the  prisoner  without 
hesitation  of  the  crime  with  which  he  stood  charged. 

It  was  late  in  that  afternoon  in  autumn  when  he  closed. 
It  was  still  later  when  the  judge  finished  his  charge,  and 
the  jury  retired  for  consultation.  The  minute  they  were 
gone  the  throng  of  spectators  began  a  general  buzz  of 
conversation,  and  many  left  -the  stifled  room  for  a  breath 
of  fresh  air. 

There  sat  Ellen — the  heroine — the  devoted  lover — the 
stern  believer  in  the  word  of  him  to  whom  her  heart  had 
been  given — watching  every  change  in  the  proceedings 
with  an  intensely  eager  interest,  and  throwing  rapid 
glances  of  encouragement  to  the  young  prisoner  in  the 
dock.  Her  face  was  deathly  pallid,  and  her  lips  showed 
only  white  lines.  There  was  at  times  a  wildness  in  her 
stare,  as  her  eyes  turned  from  the  judge  to  the  lawyers, 
and  from  the  lawyers  to  the  face  of  Duncan  ;  but  it  came 
and  went  with  almost  the  rapidity  of  thought,  stamping 
none  of  its  impulses  on  her  otherwise  composed  features. 

Duncan  was  calm — oh,  how  calm !  His  soul  had  braced 
itself  with  one  great  effort  against  the  very  worst  that 
could  come.  He  had  fixed  his  resolution,  and  it  was 
founded  in  nothing  but  the  firi|i  conviction  of  his  guilt 
lessness.  That  resolution  was  to  endure  without  a  com 
plaint  or  a  murmur,  to  the  bitter,  bitter  end. 

The  lamps  were  lighted,  and  the  room  again  showed 
signs  of  a  fresh  excitement.  People  looked  eagerly  in 


876  LIFE    IN    THE    BALANCE. 

> 

the  direction  of  the  jury-room.  Already  the  door  was 
slowly  opening.  <The  intelligence  was  rapidly  telegraphed 
from  one  to  another — from  the  court-room  to  the  hall  and 
the  stairs  leading  out  of  doors — and  again  the  people  came 
pouring  into  the  place.  The  sheriff  preceded  twelve 
solemn-faced  men,  clearing  a  way  for  them  through  the 
throng.  Every  eye  was  bent  upon  those  ominous  faces, 
and  every  one  was  studying  closely  the  probable  verdict 
in  their  dumb  expressions. 

They  filed  off  slowly  into  their  seats.  The  room  al 
ready  was  full,  and  could  hold  no  more.  Bar,  and  re 
cesses,  and  windows,  were  all  packed  with  the  living 
mass.  They  swarmed  like  insects  about  the  crowds  that 
blocked  and  blackened  the  outer  doors,  eager  to  hear,  if 
they  were  not  permitted  to  see.  Every  voice  was  hushed. 
Even  breathing  seemed  for  the  moment  suspended.  You 
could  have  heard  the  buzz  of  a  gauze-winged  insect  in 
the  reign  of  that  cavernous  and  gloomy  silence.  The 
lamps  themselves  seemed  to  burn  but  dimly,  as  if  they 
would  not  shed  their  light  over  a  scene  so  full  of  dreary 
wretchedness. 

"  Prisoner  at  the  bar,"  called  out  the  official ;  "  stand 
up !" 

Duncan  rose  to  his  feet,  erect  and  self-possessed.  All 
eyes  turned  to  him. 

"  Hold  up  your  right  hand !" 

He  did  as  he  was  bidden. 

"  What  say  you,  gentlemen  of  the  jury — is  the  prisoner 
at  the  bar  guilty,  or  not  guilty?" 

"  Guilty !" 

It  fell  on  every  ear,  low  and  sadly  as  that  word  was 
spoken  by  the  juryman,  like  the  sound  of  doom.  The 
crowd  fetched  one  long,  deep  breath.  It  was  a  relief  to 
know  even  the  worst.  Duncan  sat  down  and  bowed  his 


LITE    IN    THE    BALANCE.  377 

*t 

head  to  the  rail  before  him.  Ellen  fell  prostrate  upon 
the  floor. 

There  was  great  confusion  in  a  moment.  A  passage 
was  cleared,  and  stout  arms  bore  the  insensible  girl  out 
into  the  air.  She  was  placed  in  an  adjoining  room,  and 
the  windows  opened  that  the  cool  night  wind  might  draw 
in  over  her  face.  Restoratives  were  hurriedly  brought, 
and  applied  with  unremitting  attention.  They  chafed  her 
hands,  her  wrists,  and  her  temples.  And  when  life  at 
length  came  back  again,  and  the  colorless  lips  of  the  poor 
sufferer  found  language  into  which  to  shape  her  groans — 
"  Oh,  Duncan !  poor,  dear  Duncan !"  was  all  that  could 
be  heard. 

She  opened  her  eyes,  and  saw  a  strange  face  bending 
down  tenderly  over  her  own.  "Be  quiet,  child !"  said 
the  stranger. 

It  was  Kate  Trott !  She  had  heard,  and  seen,  and  felt 
it  all! 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

THE   WORK    OF   A   MAGDALEN. 

A  FEW  weeks  went  by ;  weeks  of  patient  suffering  to 
the  hearts  of  both  Ellen  and  the  condemned  prisoner, 
each  one  shortening  the  little  span  the  law  yet  allowed 
him  to  live.  Every  day  Ellen  passed  several  hours  in 
Duncan's  gloomy  cell,  and  lighted  up  the  gloom  with  the 
imradiating  proof  of  her  devotedness. 

A  loud,  rapid,  and  nervous  ring  was  heard  one  evening 
at  the  door  of  Ellen's  residence,  that  started  up  the  maid 
servant  in  alarm.  She  thought  pretty  active  arms  must 
be  in  operation  outside. 

Taking  another  with  her,  she  hastened  to  answer  the 
summons. 

They  saw  only  a  woman  standing  on  the  steps.  She 
was  dressed  in  faded  clothes,  with  a  limp  and  crushed 
bonnet  set  on  somewhat  awry,  and  presented  altogether 
a  picture  calculated  to  challenge  both  ridicule  and  pity. 
Her  countenance,  coarse  as  its  expression  might  properly 
have  been  thought,  still  bore  manifest  traces  of  sadness, 
if  not  of  undying  sorrow.  The  ludicrous  was  so  over 
shadowed  with  the  pitiful  and  the  suffering  that  if  one 
had  been  inclined  to  smile,  he  must  likewise  have  wept  at 
the  same  time. 

Over  her  thin  shoulders  she  had  thrown  a  shawl  that 
she  suffered  to  fall  away  from  one  of  them  and  draggle 
behind  her.  In  her  face  were  the  distinct  lines  of  vice 


THE    WOKK     OF    A    MAGDALEN.  379 

<* 

and  dissipation.  She  had  a  look,  too,  that  was  anxious 
and  care-worn.  Raising  her  shawl  mechanically  from  the 
step,  she  accosted  the  servants,  who  evidently  were  about 
to  shut  the  door  in  her  face.  . 

"  Stop  !  stop  !"  she  cried,  with  a  quick  gesture.  "  I  've 
come  for  something  that 's  important !  very  important !" 

The  scrvanfr  who  held  the  door  half  hesitated,  so  much 
was  she  impressed  with  the  stranger's  manner. 

Seeing  that  she  had  gained  this  much,  and  a  little  in 
doubt  whether  she  would  be  able  peaceably  to  gain  any 
more,  she  threw  herself  bodily  into  the  open  crevice,  ex 
claiming  as  .she  did  so — 

"  Now  go  for  your  mistress  !  Do  ye  hear  ?  your  mis 
tress  !  Be  very  quick,  for  there  's  no  time  to  be  lost ! 
Call  her  here  now  !  Do  ye  hear  ?" 

Still  both  servants  stood  firmly  opposing  her  further 
entrance  into  the  hall. 

"  Who  are  you  ?"  one  of  them  called  out,  in  increasing 
alarm.  "  What  do  you  want  here  ?  What  do  you 
want  ?" 

"  I  tell  you  I  want  to  see  your  mistress  !" 

"  But  you  can't ;  you  can't !  Go  out  doors  with  you ! 
I  shall  call  for  help  !  Go  back  down  the  steps !"  and  both, 
girls  pressed  with  all  their  might  against  the  door. 

Making  a  powerful  effort,  however,  in  which  soul  and 
body  appeared  to  have  collected  all  their  forces  together, 
she  pushed  herself  fairly  by  her  opposers,  and  stood  in  a 
menacing  attitude,  breathless  and  excited,  beneath  the 
hall-lamp. 

"  Now  tell  me  if  this  ain't  where  Miss  Worthington 
lives,"  said  she,  imperatively. 

"  Well,  suppose  'tis ;  it 's  no  place  for  such  as  you,  and 
you  'd  better  march  yourself  off  down  the  steps  as  quick 
as  you  come  in." 


380  THE    WORK    OF    A    MAGDALEN. 

"  I  sha'n't  leave  this  house  till  I  see  Miss  Worthing- 
ton !"  said  the  woman ;  and  she  folded  her  arms  with 
an  impulse  that  evinced  only  the  most  obstinate  reso 
lution. 

"  You  won't  see  her  !"  as  resolutely  replied  the  girl  who 
helped  in  this  angry  conversation  ;  "  and  the  sooner  you 
take  your  baggage  out  of  this  house  the  better  it  may  be 
for  you !" 

As  she  uttered  these  words,  she  stepped  near  the 
woman,  and  laid  her  hand  upon  her  shoulder,  as  if  she 
were  about  to  venture  upon  the  threatened  process  of 
ejectment  without  further  ceremony. 

In  a  twinkling  the  stranger  twisted  herself  away  from 
her  grasp,  and  stood  looking  defiance  at  her  opponents, 
with  her  arms  folded  still  tighter  about  her  person. 

*"  I  shall  call  the  police,  then,"  said  the  girl.  "  Help ! 
help !" 

The  second  servant  likewise  echoed  the  call. 

Immediately  a  door  was  opened,  and  Ellen  Worthing- 
ton  herself  came  hurrying  into  the  hall. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?"  she  asked  them. 
"  What  is  the  matter  here  ?" 

"  This  horrible  creature  won't  go  out,"  answered  one 
of  the  servants.  "  She  rushed  in  past  us  both,  spite  of  all 
we  could  do  to  keep  her  back ;  and  now  she  says  she 
won't  stir  a  step  till  she  sees  you." 

"  Sees  me  !"  exclaimed  Ellen,  in  a  voice  that  had  lost 
none  of  its  soft  melancholy  since  the  great  troubles  of  her 
heart  began.  "  What  does  she  want  to  see  me  for  ?" 

As  she  spoke,  she  advanced  a  few  paces  nearer  the 
woman,  and  recognized  her  countenance.  Pallor  quickly 
overspread  her  face.  She  had  seen  that  strange  pair  of 
eyes  before.  She  well  remembered  all  the  circumstances. 

The  face  was  the  same  that  was  bending  over  her  own, 


THE    WORK    OF    A    MAGDALEN.  381 

when  she  first  opened  her  eyes  after  her  fainting-fit  in  the 
court-room !  The  stranger  was  Kate  Trott^ 

"I  want  to  see  you,  my  good  lady,"  went  on  the 
wretched  creature,  "  and  nobody  but  you !  I  've  put  it 
off,  and  put  it  off,  till  I  can't  do  it  no  longer  !  It  weighs 
down  too  heavy  on  my  heart !  Oh,  when  I  see  what  you 
suffered  in  that  court-room,  my  conscience  reproached 
me  so  bitterly !  I  can't  sleep,  dear  lady,  till  I  get  this 
matter  off  my  mind !  I  must .  tell  you  the  whole !  You 
must  knoAV  it !" 

Ellen  was  deeply  interested  in  the  earnestness  of  the 
stranger's  manner,  and  for  a  single  moment  hesitated. 

"  Let  me  free  my  mind  to-night,"  added  the  woman, 
"  and  it  '11  be  all  over  with  !  Don't  put  me  off!  It  '11 
make  you  as  happy  as  'twill  my  own  wretched  self!" 

"  Follow  me,-  ,then,"  said  Ellen,  turning  to  lead  the  way 
into  a  little  sitting-room,  where  her  talk  could  not  easily 
be  overheard.  And  the  woman  walked  on  after  her. 

"  If  this  is  the  \^ay  such  kind  of  folks  get  treated 
here,"  grumbled  one  of  the  servants,  "  it 's  no  place  for 
the  like  of  us  It 's  high  time  we  were  quit  of  the  prem 
ises  !" 

"  Now  what  have  you  come  to  tell  me  ?"  asked  Ellen, 
as  soon  as  they  were  seated  in  the  inner  room. 

"  I  'm  to  be  certain  that  you  are  Miss  "Worthington," 
answered  the  woman. 

"  I  am  that  person,"  said  Ellen. 

"  What  I  'm  a-going  to  say  to  you,  my  dear  young 
lady,"  began  she,  dropping  her  voice  till  it  sounded  om 
inous  and  sepulchral,  "  you  may  depend  on  for  nothing 
but  the  sacred  truth.  It 's  all  true,  if  it 's  the  last  thing 
I  ever  speak !" 

Ellen  grew  deeply  attentive,  and  studied  her  visitor's 
working  features  with  aroused  excitement  and  curiosity 


382  THE    WORK     OP    A    MAGDALEN. 

"  To  come  right  to  it,  then  :  it  's  all  about  that — that 
bloody  murder!  about  nothing  but  that  murder!'1'1 

"  What  about  it  ?  What  do  you  know  ?"  quickly  in 
terrupted  Ellen,  her  face  reddening  with  the  blood  that 
rushed  rapidly  over  its  surface. 

"  Don't  hurry  me,  or  I  can't  tell  any  thing.  Only  let 
me  take  my  own  time.  It 's  been  such  a  dreadful  secret 
to  keep,  I  hav'n't  known  hardly  how  to  keep  it  as  long  as 
I  have.  I  'most  wonder  I  hav'n't  been  crazy,  and  then 
told  it  all  before  I  knew  what  I  was  about." 

She  stopped,  seeming  to  collect  herself  before  she  at 
tempted  to  go  on. 

"  What  I  've  got  to  tell  you,  dear  lady,  and  what  I  've 
come  a-purpose  to  tell  you  before  I  slept  this  night,  is 
what  jest  only  one  other  livin'  bein'  besides  myself 
knows.  If  'twas  one  of  them  little  secrets  that  could  be 
kept,  I  never  should  tell  it  in  the  world.  If  I  had  n't  seen 
already  with  my  own  eyes  how  wretched  it  has  made  you, 
and  what  a  wretched  creetur  it  was  goin'  to  make  you  all 
the  rest  o'  your  days,  I  never  sh'd  betray  it  to  a  livin' 
soul.  But  I  can't  stand  this.  I  'd  die  my  own  self  be 
fore  I  'd  make  such  misery  for  another,  and  such  a  dear, 
innocent  one,  too !" 

A  second  time  she  paused,  and  then  resumed, 

"  Miss  Worthington,"  said  she,  in  a  tone  hardly  above 
a  whisper,  "  I  know  all  about  this  murder!" 

Ellen  started.  Now  her  face  was  white  as  marble. 
She  glared  upon  her  visitor,  as  if  with  a  single  look  she 
would  read  the  very  secrets  of  her  soul. 

"  I  know,  dear  lady,  what  you  don't  know.  Duncan 
Morrow — oh,  you  love  him  to  distraction  yet,  I  know — 
he  ain't  the  guilty  man  !" 

"  I  knew  it !  I  knew  it !"  cried  Ellen.  "  Oh,  that  it 
could  only  be  proved !  Help  me  prove  his  innocence, 


THE    WOKK    OF    A    MAGDALEN.  383 

woman,  and  all  the  money  you  ask  for  shall  be  yours ! 
Duncan,  I  knew  you  told  me  the  truth  when  you  said 
you  were  not  guilty  of  this  dreadful  crime  !" 

"Yes,  he  did  tell  you  the  truth,  as  I  happen  to  know; 
and  what  is  more,  I  can  prove  it  for  you  both  !" 

Ellen  got  up  and  seized  her  visitor  impulsively  by 
both  hands,  while  she  looked  beseechingly  in  her  face. 

"  Any  thing — any  thing  is  yours,  woman,  if  you  will 
only  make  your  words  good !  Speak  !  speak  quick  !  tell 
me  the  whole  of  what  you  know  !" 

Nothing  could  surpass  the  poor  girl's  excitement,  when 
she  discovered  thus  unexpectedly  that  there  was  yet  a 
chance  to  save  the  life  of  her  lover. 

"  How  do  you  know  that  Duncan  did  n't  do  this  deed  ? 
Do  you  know,  then,  who  did  ?  Can  you  tell  that  ?  Can 
you  clear  him  by  what  you  have  to  tell  ?  Speak,  woman  ! 
There  is  no  time  to  be  lost!  Come — Duncan  not  guilty  ! 
I  knew  it  was  so !  I  believed  all  the  time  it  •  was  so ! 
Do  you  know  who  is  the  guilty  one,  then  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  know  who  he  is,"  answered  the  woman,  with 
an  effort  that  seemed  to  prostrate  her  energies. 

"  Who  ?  Then  who  ?  Oh,  do  not  keep  me  in  this  ter 
rible  suspense !  Take  this  dreadful  load  from  my  heart 
this  very  night !" 

The  woman  hesitated.  Her  thoughts  did  not  rebel 
against  her  purpose,  but  they  were  seething  in  the  deep 
caldron  of  her  passions.  Old  feelings — such  as  lay  near 
est  her  polluted  heai't,  and  had  long  warmed  her  into 
what  enjoyment  that  heart  was  familiar  with — were  se 
cretly  trying  to  assert  their  strange  control  again.  She 
could  not,  in  a  single  moment,  throw  off  what  to  her  were 
the  only  endeared  memories  of  years.  But  though  she 
was  staggering  already  in  the  conflict,  she  broke  through 
their  chains  at  last,  and  with  a  convulsive  effort  her  soul 
gave  up  its  secret  to  the  world. 


384  THE    WORK    OF    A    MAGDALEN. 

"  I  '11  tell  you  who  did  it !"  cried  she,  in  a  tone  of  real 
agony.  "  It  was  Isaac  Crankey  ! — him  that  I  've  known 
well  for  years !  There,  now,  I  've  told  it  all,  and  it  can't 
be  unsaid  again !  Let  the  innocent  go  free,  and  let  the 
guilty  suffer !  I  wash  my  hands  of  blood.  Isaac  did  the 
deed,  and  not  the  dear  young  man  you  love  so  well !" 

As  she  spoke  these  words  of  such  fearful  meaning,  she 
bent  down  her  head  in  her  lap,  burying  her  face  in  her 
hands.  No  human  being  could  understand  the  violence 
or  the  pain  01  that  struggle  with  her  heart,  that  had  at 
last  resulted  in  this  important  confession. 

"  Will  you  swear  before  a  magistrate  to  what  you  have 
told  rne  ?"  asked  Ellen,  seizing  her  frenziedly  by  the  arm. 
"  Will  you  do  it  this  very  night  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes !  Oh,  any  thing,  every  thing,  but  this 
heavy  load  on  my  heart !  He  has  done  it,  and  he  must 
bear  it !  He  told  me  what  he  was  going  to  do  before  it 
happened :  he  was  going  to  put  Duncan  Morrow  out  o' 
t  the  way  because  the  other  one  wanted  him  to ;  but  he 
made  a  mistake — and  the  very  one  that  planned  the 
wicked  crime  was  the  one  to  suffer  from  it  all !  Oh,  but 
God's  hand  is  in  it !  I  can  see  that !  How  could  I  keep 
such  a  secret,  when  I  knew  that  the  Almighty- himself 
had  determined  it  should  come  out  as  clear  as  the  noon 
day  !  Oh,  Isaac !  Isaac  !  But  the  guilt  is  n't  on  me !" 

And  she  wept  and  sobbed  till  the  apartment  was  filled 
with  the  echoes  of  her  distress. 

And  was  there  no  Providence  in  this  event  ? — that  he 
who  had  first  designed  the  crime  should  himself  be  its 
victim  ?  And  no  punishment,  either,  for  the  father  who 
could  plot  so  nefariously  with  a  creature  that  he  ought 
rather  to  have  raised  from  degradation  by  his  example  ? 

Let  the  thoughtful  answer. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

THE    HANGMAN'S    EOPE. 

DUNCAN  was  speedily  released  by  due  process  of  law  ; 
Isaac  Crankey  was  tried  and  sentenced  to  be  hung. 

When  the  murderer  saw  that  the  whole  truth  was 
opened  to  the  light,  he  admitted  his  guilt,  and  explained 
how  it  was  that  he  mistook  the  on§  young  man  for  the 
other.  He  did  not  mean  to  kill  young  Henry  Dollar,  he 
said ;  and  therefore  thought  he  should  not  be  punished  as 
for  willful  murder.  But  the  law  said,  No.  Murder  was 
in  his  heart  when  he  struck  the  fatal  blow ;  in  his  mad  ; 
haste  he  had  only  mistaken  his  victim ! 

Old  Mr.  Dollar,  fearfully  stricken  with  the  events  of 
the  last  few  weeks,  still  trembled  every  hour  the  real 
murderer  was  suffered  to  live,  lest  he  might,  in  an  un 
guarded  moment,  give  to  the  Avorld  his  own  oonnection 
with  the  affair.  But  the  event  showed  that  he  knew  not 
the  nature  of  even  Isaac  Crankey  ;  a  being  who,  with  all 
his  crimes  heavy  on  his  soul,  still  could  keep  honor  unsul 
lied,  and  still  could  preserve  one  side  of  his  manhood  far 
more  sacredly  than  he. 

No  ;  Isaac  thought,  and  thought  truly,  that  Mr.  Dollar 
already  had  cause  enough  for  repentance  in  the  terribly 
unfortunate  issue  of  his  own  plan.  It  was  unnecessary 
that  he  should  now  add  exposure  to  all  the  rest ;  for  the 
dreadful  secret  was  a  far  acuter  agony  for  him  to  endure 

17 


.jo  THE    HANG  MAN'S    ROPE. 

than  all  the  cruel  inflictions  with  which  the  laws  might 
visit  him.  And  Jacob  Dollar  lived  on  ;  with  this  secret 
all  the  time  gnawing  and  festering  in  his  bosom  ;  his  heart 
slowly  breaking  with  the  sorrow  that  no  power  could  as 
suage  on  this  side  the  grave  ! 

Time  went  rapidly  on.  The  unhappy  prisoner  counted 
the  days,  and  then  the  hours.  It  was  already  midnight, 
just  before  the  fatal  morning  that  would  usher  in  the  day 
of  execution. 

The  condemned  man  still  sat  on  the  side  of  his  bed  in 
the  little  cell,  trying  to  shape  and  comprehend  in  some 
degree  the  palpable  reality  that  was  around  him.  He 
seemed  unable  to  altogether  understand  his  situation,  let 
him  try  ever  so  seriously.  His  thoughts  were  wandering 
and  bewildered — quite  broken  up  by  the  recoil  of  the  evil 
powers  that  had  brought  him  to  his  present  condition. 

Even  at  that  hour  a  clergyman  was  in  his  cell,  talking 
to  him  in  a  subdued  voice,  and  laboring  to  smooth  the 
descent  for  him  to  the  grave.  Alternately  he  prayed  for 
the  wretched  prisoner  and  ofiered  him  what  consolation 
lay  in  his  power.  The  poor  man  could  hardly  convince 
himself  that  he  deserved  the  summary  punishment  of  a 
murderer,  for  the  blow  that  he  dealt  was  not  meant  for 
his  victim,  but  for  another. 

"  Well,  if  I  'm  to  die,"  said  he,  after  a  protracted  fit  of 
sullen  musing,  "  I  must  see  Kate  once  more.  But  is  it  so 
certain  that  I  am  to  die  ?  I  can't  believe  it  myself.  It 
don't  seem  at  all  like  it  to  me.  I  can't  say  as  I  feel  any 
different  now  from  what  I  generally  do." 

He  was  leaning  his  head  on  his  hand,  and  thoughtfully 
gazing  upon  one  particular  spot  in  thfc  floor.  Such  a  be 
sotted,  inhuman,  vice-seared  expression  as  his  countenance 
•»ore,  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  any  where  else,  even  in 
the  field  in  which  he  had  been  so  long  a  laborer.  His 


THE  HANGMAN'S  ROPE.  387 

hair  was  tangled  and  matted,  brushed  helter-skelter  about 
his  protuberant  ^temples,  and  extremely  coarse  and  why. 
In  places  it  was  already  turning  gray. 

Every  time  he  looked  up,  which  he  did  only  with  de- 
liberateness  and  with  a  stupid  and  sullen  stare,  his  great 
eyes  showed  themselves  swollen  and  bleared,  as  if  they, 
too,  had  assumed  an  unnatural  expression.  Now  he  gazed 
at  the  clergyman  present,  now  about  the  walls  of  his 
dreary  cell,  and  then  asked  vacantly  if  any  body  could 
tell  him  where  he  really  was. 

No  wonder  that  he  was  lost  in  the  winding  mazes  of 
his  crimes  at  last. 

His  spiritual  adviser  took  such  occasions  to  try  and  im 
press  on  him  the  fearfulness  of  his  situation,  and  the  ne 
cessity  of  making  the  best  account  of  every  moment  that 
remained. 

The  clock  struck.     One  ! 

"  To-day !"  said  he,  looking  up  suddenly. 

"  Yes,  to-day,"  solemnly  answered  the  clergyman. 
"Can  you  realize  how  short  your  time  is?" 

"  Then  I  'm  to  be  hung,  am  I  ?"  continued  the  con 
demned  man,  not  heeding  him.  "  Hung !  ha — ha — ha  !" 

And  then  followed  a  brief  space  of  thoughtfulness 
again,  during  which  he  might  have  been  trying  again  to 
take  into  his  mind  the  meaning  of  his  doom. 

"  Before  all  those  people  !"  he  exclaimed.  "  But  won't 
it  be  glorious  ?  To  think  how  grandly  I  shall  go  off,  and 
all  their  eyes  fixed  on  nobody  but  me !  Ah !  Isaac 
Crankey  '11  be  in  his  element  to-clay,  if  he  never  was  be 
fore  !  To  hang  a  man  right  up,  now,  by  nothing  at  all 
but  his  neck,  between  earth  and  heaven,  without  a  single 
thing  for  him  to  rest  even  the  tips  of  his  toes  on,  and  that 
cursed  cord  drawing  tighter  and  tighter  with  your 
weight,  and  closer  and  closer — choke — choke !  Ugh  ! 


388  THE    HANGMAN'S    ROPE. 

how  can  I  think  of  it  without  shaking  !  It  don't  please 
me  one  bit !  I  really  wonder  how  I  shall  feel,  though !" 

With  this  his  own  suggestion,  he  proceeded  to  clasp 
both  his  great  bony  hands  about  his  neck,  pressing 
them  more  and  more  tightly  together,  as  if  he  had  put 
his  neck,  for  the  sake  of  experiment,  in  a  vice.  The  trial 
must  in  some  measure  have  satisfied  his  curiosity,  for  he 
immediately  relapsed  into  his  former  fit  of  thoughtful- 
ness,  as  if  he  might  have  possibly  comprehended  the 
dread  nature  of  the  punishment  he  was  so  soon  to  suffer. 

"But  I  must  see  Kate  again,"  he  repeated  to  those 
around  him.  "  Kate  has  been  a  good  friend  to  me,  from 
the  time  I  first  knew  her.  Misfortune  made  us  friends  in 
the  first  place,  and  we've  been  attached  by  that  bond 
ever  since.  Never  in  the  world  did  she  tell  on  me  be 
fore,  and  she  never  'd  done  it  now,  only  'twas  too  great  a 
secret  for  her  woman's  heart  to  keep.  That  was  jest  the 
whole  of 't.  I  had  n't  ought  to  have  expected  she  would, 
either.  But  there's  no  help  now  for  it.  I've  got  to 
suffer  ;  and  there  's  where  this  matter  '11  end  !  Tell  Kate 
I  must  see  her,  will  you?  I  wouldn't  fail  to,  for  the 
world.  I  've  got  somewhat  to  say  to  her  !" 

They  assured  him  that  she  should  be  brought  into 
his  cell  as  soon  as  was  proper  in  the  morning,  and  that 
he  should  be  allowed  at  that  time  to  take  his  leave 
of  her. 

"  And  after  that,"  replied  he,  "  never — never  shall  I  see 
her  again!  Is  that  really  so?  Well,  poor  Kate!  at 
least  you'll  remember  me!  I  never  thought  'twould 
come  quite  to  this,  though  I  really  could  ri't  say  for  cer 
tain  that  't  would  n'l !  But  what 's  the  good  of  cryin' 
about  it  now?  What's  past,  is  past.  Let  it  all  alone. 
There  's  no  help  for  it,  is  there  ?  It  was  only  one  blow 
with  this  risrht  arm,  and  't  was  all  done.  There  was  n't 

O  ' 


THE  HANGMAN'S  ROPE.  389 

any  sufferin',  nor  any  groanin',  The  life  went  out  aa 
quiet  as  it  first  come  in !" 

He  paused  again. 

"  Hang  me  by  the  neck  !  Will  they  do  that  ?  Can 
they  do  that  ?  Take  a  man  in  full  health,  put  an  ugly 
rope  about  his  neck,  and  choke  him  to  death !  Oh,  what 
will  be  the  good  of  it  all !  Will  it  do  me  any  good  ? 
Will  it  help  any  body  else  ?  Will  it  make  a  single  soul 
a  whit  happier  ?  Or  carry  any  more  sin  out  of  the  world  ? 
Or  prevent  any  more  from  comin'  in  ?  Oh,  God  ! — that 
I  should  ever  come  to  it!  To  choke — to  choke — to 
chr>ke,  with  a  rope  !" 

His  anticipated  physical  sufferings  seemed  to  have  the 
most  terror  for  him.  His  mind  was  apparently  busy  with 
nothing  but  these. 

Later  than  this,  he  managed  to  fall  into  a  slumber. 
It  was  at  best  but  a  restless  sleep,  and  could  have 
brought  him  very  little  refreshment.  He  awoke  from  it 
at  length,  to  make  the  discovery  that  he  was  in  his  cell 
all  alone. 

"  To-day  !"  was  his  first  exclamation  ;  and  in  an  instant 
he  sprang  up,  and  sat  upright  on  the  side  of  his  bed. 

Such  a  swift  tide  of  strange  feelings  as  rushed  violently 
around  his  heart !  Such  acute  anguish  as  that  imbruted 
heart  for  at  least  one  brief  moment  suffered !  Such  a 
mighty  sweep  of  strong  sensations  over  his  brain — blind 
ing,  and  bewildering,  and  overwhelming — it  is  only  for 
those  in  like  situations  to  experience  ever ! 

"Then  I'm  really  going  to-day,  am  I?"  lie  repeated 
slowly  to  himself,  his  voice  sounding  sepulchral  in  the 
little  cell.  "  I  declare  it  does  n't  seem  so  to  me !  I  can't 
help  feeling  I'm  a  goin'  to  live  as  long  as  other  people — 
forever  perhaps — oh,  I  don't  know  what !  God  help  me ! 
—my  head! — my  heart!  Oh,  how- faint  I  am!  How 


390  THE  HANGMAN'S  HOPE. 

close  it  is  here  ! — Is  it  only  this  morning  ?  Has  it  at  last 
come  ?  I — die — on — the — gal-lows  !" 

Just  at  this  juncture,  he  was  interrupted  in  this  fearful 
train  of  musings  by  the  entrance  of  the  prison-keeper, 
who  came  to  bring  him  in  his  breakfast.  Much  more 
than  his  ordinary  allowance  was  oifered  him  on  this  morn 
ing,  and  possibly  some  kind  heart  had  provided  a  better 
quality  than  usual,  too.  He  turned  round  and  surveyed 
his  meal,  as  it  was  placed  upon  the  table. 

"  What 's  the  use  ?"  said  he,  after  a  moment's  thought. 
"I  can't  eat.  Let  her  go  at  that.  I  shall  have  to  die 
pretty  soon ;  so  what 's  the  good  of 't  all  ?" 

The  keeper  tried  to  soothe  his  feelings,  urging  him  to 
refresh  himself  with  food,  as  it  would  give  him  more 
strength  to  go  through  the  trying  scenes  of  the  day. 
And  after  a  little,  the  prisoner  finally  did  set  up  at  the 
table,  and  before  he  thought  of  it  had  made  quite  a  hearty 
meal. 

An  hour  later,  the  clergyman  who  had  hitherto  attend 
ed  him  came  in  again ;  but  this  time  he  brought  another 
with  him.  It  was  Kate,  the  wretched  outcast  who  had 
betrayed  him  to  the  world. 

"  Oh,  Isaac !"  she  cried  out,  the  moment  she  laid  her 
eyes  on  his  face,  while  she  groveled  on  her  very  knees 
before  him,  "  oh,  forgive  me  this  once,  Isaac !  I  could  n't 
help  it,  you  know !  I  really  could  n't  help  it !  You 
should  n't  have  told  me  such  a  secret !  You  should  have 
kept  it  all  to  yourself!  It  was  too  much  for  such  as  me 
to  keep !  And  when  I  saw  that  innocent  young  man  in 
the  dock,  whose  life  was  saved  from  your  hand,  in  danger 
of  losin'  it  after  all  jest  by  my  own  wicked  silence,  how 
could  I  keep  your  secret,  Isaac  ?  How  could  I  ?  And 
that  dear  young  lady,  too,  that  loved  him  as  she  loved 
her  own  soul,  and  weepin'  and  moanin'  day  after  day 


THE    HANGMAN'S    HOPE.  391 

over  his  fate — when  all  the  time  I  knew,  and  you  knew, 
that;  he  was  so  innocent — oh,  how  could  I  stand  by  and 
not  try  what  I  could  do  to  save  her !  Jt  was  n't  through 
any  hate  I  had  for  you,  Isaac  ;  no — no — no  !  But  it  was 
for  the  pity  I  could  n't  help  feelin'  for  them  that  was 
a-goin'  to  suffer,  when  I  knew  they  was  n't  guilty !  Oh, 
but  you  shouldn't  have  told  me  the  secret !  You  should 
have  kept  it  all  to  yourself!  You  should  have  known  I 
could  n't  keep  it !  No,  Isaac,  you  could  n't  always  keep 
it  yourself !  'T  would  some  day  or  other  have  come  out ! 
And  why  not  now,  as  well  as  years  hence — before  any 
more  wrong 's  done  to  them  that 's  innocent  of  the  whole 
of  it  ?  You  must  forgive  me,  Isaac !  I  know  you  will 
forgive  me !  Won't  you,  Isaac  ?  Won't  you  say  that 
you  will,  before  I  get  up  off  the  floor  here  ?" 

There  stood  now  the  stolid-looking  prisoner  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor,  folding  his  stout  arms  across  his  chest. 
He  appeared  perfectly  unmoved  and  immovable.  His 
breathing,  to  be  sure,  was  deep,  and  sometimes  irregular  ; 
but  that  was  the  only  betrayal  he  made  of  the  least  feel 
ing  or  emotion. 

It  was  a  moving  scene,  the  meeting  of  these  two  vice- 
hardened,  sin-stained  beings ;  two  who  had  lived  together 
in  comparative  harmony  so  many  years ;  whose  love  for 
one  another  was  as  exalted  and  as,  undoubted  as  it  is  pos 
sible  for  that  of  such  persons  ever  to  be,  and  who  still,  in 
the  very  face  of  the  wide  breach  so  suddenly  made  in  their 
sympathies,  secretly  clung  to  one  another  with  a  spirit  of 
devotion  that  was  little  short  of  tenderness  itself. 

She  made  another  effort ;  this  time  embracing  his  feet 
with  her  arms,  and  raining  her  tears'  plentifully  on  the 
floor.  Her  hair  fell  down  from  its  fastenings, .and  hung 
disheveled  over  her  face  and  shoulders.  Bitterly  enough 
did  she  bewail  the  necessity  that  drove  her  to  the  con 


392  THE  HANGMAN'S  ROPE. 

fession  she  had  made ;  but  with  all  the  earnest  tender 
ness  she  could  throw  into  her  manner,  she  begged  to 
know  how  she  could  stand  by  in  silence  and  see  the  inno 
cent  ones  suffer.  She  wept  because  he  had  not  taken  the 
advice  she  had  at  first  given  him,  and  kept  himself  free 
from  this  crime  altogether.  She  bewailed  the  terrible 
fate  that  that  very  day  awaited  him,  but  besought  him  to 
go  to  his  end  with  a  clean  heart  and  with  ill-will  toward 
no  living  man.  And  to  close  her  appeal,  she  begged  for 
his  forgiveness  again  for  what  she  had  been  instrumental 
in  bringing  about ;  for  nothing  but  his  forgiveness,  as  he 
hoped  himself  to  be  finally  forgiven. 

It  would  be  needless  to  attempt  to  convey  any  idea  of 
the  intensity  of  her  manner,  or  the  beseeching  piteous- 
ness  of  her  voice,  or  the  great  cloud  of  sorrow  that  shad 
owed  her  countenance  as  she  went  on  with  her  petition. 
This,  she  said,  was  her  last  and  only  remaining  suppli 
cation.  Upon  his  granting  her  this  single  request  hung 
all  the  peace  that  in  this  world  she  could  ever  hope  to 
enjoy. 

A  long  time  it  was  that  she  strove  so  earnestly  with 
his  heart.  She  kept  importuning  him  most  beseechingly 
every  moment.  She  seemed  intent  on  finally  extorting 
his  free  forgiveness  from  him,  or  going  to  the  gallows 
with  him  herself! 

He  remained  in  his  statue-like  attitude  as  long  as  he 
could.  Obstinacy  could  hardly  hold  out  any  longer.  It 
must  have  been  a  heart  of  real  stone  that  could  be  indif 
ferent  to  such  earnest  appeals. 

At  length  his  chest  shook  and  heaved  irregularly.  Lit 
tle  by  little  it  grew  convulsive.  As  she  sobbed,  so  he 
seemed  to  sob  likewise.  His  figure  slowly  bent,  like  a 
giant  tree  bowing  before  a  high  wind.  His  muscles  all 
gradually  relaxed.  And  with  one  deep-drawn,  groaning 


TIIE  HANGMAN'S   ROPE.  393 

sigh,  that  made  hot  tears  well  their  way  up  from  his  very 
heart,  he  sprang  forward,  and  lifted  her  to  her  feet. 

"  I  do  forgive  you,  Kate !"  he  cried,  his  voice  tremu 
lous  with  emotion.  "  I  do  forgive  you  all !" 

She  thresv  herself  instantly  upon  his  breast,  and  there 
she  wept  a  long,  long  time. 

"  There 's  a  bunch  of  papers,"  said  he,  recalling  every 
item  that  he  wished  now  to  intrust  her  with  after  hia 
death — "  you  '11  find  a  little  bunch  of  papers  that  belong 
to  me  in  that  chest  of  mine  ;  it 's  in  the  left-hand  corner, 
clear  at  the  bottom.  Keep  them  all  carefully.  They  '11 
be  of  consequence  yet  to  somebody,  perhaps.  You'll 
find  my  marriage-certificate  among  them,  too.  Ah,  but 
a  bad  man  I  've  been,  Kate,  and  this  is  the  end  of  a  bad 
life  !  I  should  have  loved  my  wife  and  child  better,  and 
worked  for  their  comfort  in  the  world  ;  but  I  did  n't,  and 
see  where  I  am  to-day !  You  '11  not  forget  the  papers, 
Kate  ?" 

She  promised  him  they  should  be  carefully  preserved. 
And  with  a  sorrowful  leave-taking,  indeed,  she  took  her 
departure  from  his  sight. 

******* 

Close  by  the  prison-wall,  in  the  adjoining  yard,  alread} 
towered  the  gloomy  gallows.  The  sun  shone  out  brightly, 
and  the  ominous  structure  threw  down  a  long,  dreary 
shadow  on  the  ground.  It  seemed  as  if  the  shadow  made 
the  instrument  of  de'ath  look  still  more  repulsive  and 
hideous. 

Persons — those  who  were  particularly  privileged  on 
that  day — were  already  flocking  in,  crowding  all  along 
the  passages,  in  the  angles  and  corners  every  where. 
There  was  hardly  a  standing-place  that  was  not  occupied 
to  the  full  extent  of  its  capacity.  Every  face  was  shad 
owed  with  a  degree  of  anxiety  that  gave  the  cramped 

17* 


394  THE  HANGMAN'S  KOPE. 

premises  an  appearance  at  once  dull,  dark,  and  spectral. 
The  very  sunlight  was  toned  down  to  a  sad  and  sickly 
brilliancy,  making  it  gloomier  even  than  if  it  had  not 
shone  at  all. 

The  people  watched  and  waited  patiently.  One  asked 
another  if  he  had  seen  the  man  when  he  received  his  sen 
tence,  and  how  he  seemed  to  bear  it.  Another  inquired 
if  the  culprit  would  be  likely  to  go  through  the  trying 
scene  like  a  man  ;  and  if  he  had  a  hardened  look,  or  ap 
peared  to  be  at  all  timid  in  the  face  of  his  fate. 

Some  seemed  solemnly  occupied  with  such  thoughts  as 
were,  begotten  of  the  scene ;  but  these  were  few  and 
isolated  instances.  Most  were  conversing  freely  with 
one  another,  and  at  times  quite  cheerfully.  All  speculated 
upon  the  probable  manner  in  which  the  doomed  man  would 
die ;  and  there  were  not  a  few  in  the  world  who  would 
willingly  have  laid  wagers,  this  way  or  that,  on  the  courage 
or  want  of  it  that  he  would  at  the  last  moment  exhibit. 

At  length  a  low  buzz  began  near  the  door  of  the  prison, 
at  which  the  criminal  was  expected  to  come  out  from  the 
inner  apartment.  Then  the  buzz  broke  and  spread  into  a 
murmur,  that  ran  sullenly  along  the  packed  mass  of  hu 
man  beings. 

A  procession  came  slowly  through  the  door,  and  filed 
sadly  along  in  the  direction  of  the  gallows  past  the  crowd. 
All  faces  were  eagerly  thrust  forward  from  outstretched 
necks  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  prisoner. 

He  was  clad  in  a  white  robe,  in  accordance  with  an  old 
custom,  that  hung  loosely  about  his  limbs,  and  walked  to 
his  doom  by  the  side  of  the  clergyman  who  had  been  his 
constant  attendant  from  the  day  of  his  sentence.  The 
sheriff  led  the  van,  supported  on  either  side  by  a  deputy. 
Only  he  and  the  prisoner  and  the  clergyman  mounted  the 
scaffold  stairs,  the  prisoner  between  the  other  two.  Even 


THE   HANGMAN'S  HOPE.  395 

at  this  last  moment  he  seemed  to  step  firmly  as  he  went 
up,  without  a  shudder,  and  with  not  the  least  betrayal 
of  fear.  He  must  now  have  given  up  hope,  and  nerved 
him«e!f  for  his  final  struggle. 

Why  need  I  go  through  the  rehearsal  of  a  scene,  the 
like  of  which  is  almost  any  week  in  the  year  to  be  wit 
nessed  over  the  broad  face  of  our  land  ?  Why  relate 
those  few  and  halting  last  words  of  the  dying  man  ? — the 
last  prayer,  falling  so  solemnly  on  the  hearts  of  those  who 
listened  and  witnessed  ? — the  sight  of  mental  agony — of 
bodily  suffering  ? 

The  deeply-moved  mass  of  people  suddenly  stood  silent, 
as  if  judgment  were  that  moment  passed  not  only  upon  a 
poor  guilty  wretch,  but  likewise  upon  them.  On  a  single 
object  all  eyes  were  intently  fixed.  It  was  the  swinging 
body  of  the  criminal,  whose  struggles  and  whose  crimes 
were  in  this  world  forever  at  an  end.  Some  fetched  deep 
sighs  unconsciously.  Some  turned  away  their  faces,  and 
sickened  at  the  revolting  and  inhuman  spectacle. 

He  died  as  all  such  die.  His  fearful  end  read  no  lesson 
to  those  who  were  allowed  to  witness  it,  save,  perhaps, 
one  of  stunning,  paralyzing  awe.  It  deadened  the  heart, 
and  unconsciously  besotted  its  finer  feelings.  Out  of  it 
sprang  as  fruit  no  pure,  lofty  lesson  of  right,  no  impress 
ive  idea  of  justice  or  of  the  beauty  of  well-doing — that  is 
the  growth  only  of  love. 

Isaac  Crankey  could  plot  crime  no  more.  His  busy 
brain  was  asleep.  His  hand  was  stretched  stiff  at  his  side, 
never,  never  to  move  itself  again. 

But  Jacob  Dollar — was  he  any  easier,  now  that  he 
knew  the  criminal  and  his  dreaded  secret  had  perished 
forever  ? 

Could  you  have  asked  the  heart  of  the  man,  dear  read 
er,  what,  think  you,  would  have  been  its  answer  ? 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

A     HAPPY    MAKEIAGE. 

BEAUTIFUL  and  bright  above  all  the  days  in  the  autumn 
of  that  year  was  the  day  of  the  marriage  of  Ellen  Worth- 
ington  and  Duncan  Morrow.  It  was  the  intention  of 
both  to  have  the  ceremony  as  privately  conducted  as  pos 
sible,  yet  that  determination  was  hardly  sufficient  to  keep 
away  from  the  joyful  scene  many  who  still  loved  the 
bride  tenderly. 

The  sun  seemed  to  salute  the  earth  with  a  holy  kiss 
that  morning,  and  the  air  blew  as  blandly  up  the  town 
streets  as  it  blows  over  the  gardens  of  Italy.  The  select 
bridal  party  were  already  gathered  at  Ellen's  residence, 
exchanging  congratulations  with  one  another  on  the  pleas 
ant  event  about  to  follow. 

Within,  the  scene  was  highly  animating.  The  delight 
ful  morning  sun,  streaming  into  the  opened  rooms  through 
the  looped  drapery  of  the  windows,  gilded  every  object 
on  which  it  fell,  and  kindled  spontaneously  feelings  of 
secret  joy  in  every  heart  there.  A  morning  sun  is  al 
ways  pleasant;  but  such  a  sun,  when  beaming  brightly 
on  a  bridal  scene,  and  the  two  about  to  be  united  just 
emerged  from  the  very  darkness  of  desolation,  too,  is 
the  giver  of  a  glory  that  shines  from  the  rays  of  scarcely 
any  other. 

All  who  were  present  felt  that  the  dark  cloud  had  been 
lifted  now.  Its  incubus  was  removed  from  their  hearts, 


A    HAPPY    MABEIAGE.  397 

Only  bright  sunlight  was  over  them  and  around  them. 
It  had  finally  chased  all  the  shadows  away. 

Ellen  came  into  the  presence  of  her  friends,  fondly 
leaning  on  the  arm  of  him  she  loved  above  all  others. 
She  wore  a  serene  smile  for  every  one,  which  she  gener 
ously  bestowed  upon  them  all  as  she  entered;  and  it 
quite  perceptibly  gladdened  her  heart  to  feel  that  it  was 
returned  with  such  a  frank  and  ready  cordiality. 

She  was  dressed  without  any  art — unless  perfect  sim 
plicity  may  be  called  art — her  hair  tastefully  parted  over 
her  forehead,  with  a  single  orange  blossom  for  its  only 
ornament — her  person  attired  in  a  neat  traveling  habit, 
to  be  all  ready  for  the  little  tour  they  contemplated  start 
ing  on  immediately — and  her  face  glowingly  alive  to  the 
influences  of  the  morning  and  the  hour.  Her  appear 
ance  instantly  suggested  grace,  and  refined  intelligence, 
and  true  womanly  dignity. 

And  to  have  seen  the  face  of  the  youthful  bridegroom 
at  her  side,  would  have  been  to  disbelieve  that  he  could 
be  the  same  one  who,  not  long  ago,  had  sat  sadly  in  the 
prisoner's  dock,  listening  in  silence  to  the  wickedly  woven 
story  of  his  own  guilt ;  the  same  who  had  afterward  stood 
up  and  heard,  with  unchanging  countenance,  the  verdict 
that  sought  to  destroy  his  life  at  a  single  cruel  blow,  arid 
whose  pale  features  betrayed  the  hidden  anguish  that 
might  even  before  that  tune  have  consumed  him. 

He  stood  erect,  wearing  the  impress  of  a  noble  manli 
ness.  The  sufferings  he  had  .recently  endured  served  to 
develop  more  noticeably  those  traits  that  ennobled  his 
character,  and  that  had  drawn  to  him  first  the  sympathy 
and  then  the  admiration  of  all  who  knew  him.  In  truth, 
at  this  moment  he  really  stood  on  higher,  prouder 
ground  than  before  the  mischance  that  for  a  time  threat 
ened  to  overwhelm  him  with  ruin. 


898  A    1IAPPY    MARKIAGE. 

They  plighted  their  vows  solemnly  before  the  clergy- 
man,  and  in  the  presence  of  that  little  assembly.  They 
received  the  good  man's  blessing  on  their  heads,  trusting 
hopefully  in  the  still  unexplored  future.  They  would  be 
faithful  now,  forever.  No  change  might  overtake  and 
surprise  them  in  •  the  hereafter — no  diiferences  could 
creep  in  between  heart  and  heart — no  fears  were  to  let 
themselves  down  like  dark  clouds  about  their  rosy  hori 
zon.  It  would  with  them  always  be  the  glorious  sun 
shine,  of  which  the  golden  sunshine  of  this  happy  morn 
ing  was  but  a  faint  and  fading  promise. 

After  receiving  the  oft-repeated  congratulations  of 
their  friends,  and  reciprocating  each  kindly-expressed 
wish  with  all  the  fervor  of  their  feelings,  they  partook 
of  the  refreshments  that  wrere  provided,  and  took  their 
leave.  Ellen  had  left  her  own  home ;  but  no  wanderer 
ever  went  toward  home  any  happier. 

For  nearly  a  week  the  newly-married  couple  were  en 
gaged  in  traveling  among  the  beautiful  scenery  our  land 
offers  on  every  side.  They  steamed  up  the  lordly  Hud 
son,  and  looked  down  upon  its  silvery  surface  from  the 
lofty  heights  of  the  Catskills.  They  sailed  the  quiet 
length  of  sweet  Lake  George,  and  dreamed  pleasant 
dreams  together  among  the  scores  of  little  islands  that 
emboss  its  bosom.  They  caught  the  roar  of  "  the  sound 
ing  water"  at  Ticonderoga,  and  rambled  among  the  ruins 
where  a  brave  soul  sent  its  imperious  summons  to  a  ter 
rified  enemy.  And  down  the  St.  Lawrence  ;  and  through 
the  gateway  of  the  hills  of  \7ermont;  and  by  the.  banks 
of  winding  rivers,  skirting  their  lengthening  streams  for 
hundreds  of  miles ;  and  into  calm  and  pleasant  villages, 
whose  streets  were  flaming  with  the  autumnal  fires  among 
the  maples,  and  walnuts,  and  elms :  until  at  last  they 
reached  that  delightful  old  spot,  doubly  dear  to  both  of 


A    HAPPY    MAEKIAGE.  399 

them  now,  Draggledew  Plain.  Old  Hector  Hedge  was, 
as  usual,  standing  in  the  tavern-door  holding  on  by  the 
lintels  as  they  drove  by.  And  not  very  long  after  the 
little  town  knew  that  Duncan  Morrow  and  his  bride  hud 
arrived.  It  was  great  news  there. 

They  drew  up  before  the  door  of  the  little  nest  where 
the  dumb  girl  lived  with  her  protectress.  Duncan  jumped 
to  the  ground,  and  helped  his  bride  out  after  him. 

Alice  was  at  the  window  when  they  drove  up.  The 
moment  she  saw  her  brother's  form,  she  ran  out  through 
the  door  in  the  wildest  delight,  and  clasped  him  tenderly 
about  his  neck.  Oh,  what  would  she  not  at  that  moment 
have  given  could  she  express  to  her  brother  the  tumultu 
ous  emotions  that  moved  her  so  deeply  !  What  joy 
would  hers  have  been  could  her  tongue  have  been  that 
moment  loosed  and  her  ears  unstopped !  She  laid  her 
head  on  his  breast,  and  glittering  tears  rolled  down  her 
cheeks.  They  were  tears  of  pure  thankfulness  and  delight. 

At  length  Duncan  roused  her;  and,  taking  her  hand, 
placed  it  in  that  of  his  beautiful  bride.  Alice  looked  at 
her  a  moment  through  the  mists  that  swam  in  her  eyes, 
an  instantly  an  expression  of  recognition  broke  out  over 
her  countenance.  She  remembered  that  face ;  she  well 
remembered  the  visit  Ellen  had  made  before  to  her 
home ;  but  how  could  she  have  suspected  then  that  the 
stranger  was  so  soon  afterward  to  come  there  as  her 
brother's  bride ! 

As  soon  as  the  excitement  of  arrival  was  a  little  past, 
Duncan  proposed  to  Ellen  that  they  should  all  three 
walk  over  and  see  her  friends,  the  Riverses.  This  was 
early  the  next  morning.  So  they  made  ready,  and  after 
a  pleasant  excursion  found  themselves  at  the  gate  of  Mr. 
Rivers's  little  elysium. 

The  two  sisters  welcomed  their  old  friend  with  a  most 


400  A    HAPPY    MARRIAGE. 

earnest  cordiality.  The  recollection  of  the  great  trials 
through  which  she  had  just  passed  quickened  their 
friendly  sympathies  for  her  immeasurably,  and  they 
seemed  to  receive  "her  almost  as  one  who  had  been 
raised  from  the  dead.  They  all  shed  tears  of  joy  to 
gether,  and  their  embraces  and  congratulations  were 
really  affecting. 

Ellen  presented  them  to  her  husband.  It  must  be  con 
fessed  that  she  did  so  with  not  a  little  degree  of  sensible 
pride  and  satisfaction.  The  girls  had  known  him  before, 
but  only  through  his  sister.  He  took  the  opportunity, 
moreover,  to  thank  them  for  their  friendly  interest  in  his 
unfortunate  relative,  and  for  the  tender  sympathy  they 
had  extended  her  when  her  heart  was  nearly  broken 
with  its  grief. 

And  Alice  stood  and  looked  alternately  at  the  face  of 
her  brother  and  his  bride,  with  an  expression  of  the  deep 
est  delight.  Her  own  face  was  eloquent.  The  speech 
that  Heaven  had  wisely  forbidden  to  her  lips,  seemed 
breaking  out  in  lines  of  living  light  all  over  her  fine  coun 
tenance,  till  the  intelligent  and  radiant  glow  of  her  fea 
tures*  gave  her  an  appearance  that  was  hardly  less  than 
ethereal.  • 

Days  went  by  with  them,  and  all  were  superlatively 
happy.  The  dark  stream  of  their  troubles  had  been 
crossed  in  safety.  The  cloud  that  so  long  and  so  threat 
eningly  had  hung  over  them,  had  all  blown  away  from 
their  sky,  and  the  sun  now  shone  out  more  brightly  than 
before.  Ellen's  preference  was  to  remain  in  the  quiet  of 
the  village  for  some  time  yet ;  and,  of  course,  nothing 
could  have  given  either  her  husband  or  her  friends  any 
greater  satisfaction  than  such  intelligence. 

Mr.  Holliday  had  frequently  met  the  new  party  at  the 
house  of  Mr.  Rivers,  since  their  arrival,  at  which  timo 


A    HAPPY     MARRIAGE.  401 

Martha  could  hardly  help  envying  the  newly-married  pair 
their  happiness ;  while  she  wondered  also,  how  soon  she 
might  realize  the  whole  of  her  own  dearest  dreams.  And 
Mr.  Rivers  himself,  when  he  could  gather  them  all  to 
gether  in  his  little  parlor,  seemed  more  vivacious  than 
he  had  been  since  his  removal  into  rustic  retirement.  A 
new  activity  had  infused  itself  into  his  spirits ;  and  he  cer 
tainly  appeared  as  happy  as  the  happiest,  the  bride  and 
groom  even  riot  being  excepted. 

Things  had  gone  along  in  this  smooth  way  for  a  little 
time,  when  he  suddenly  conceived  the  plan  of  absenting 
himself  from  home  for  a  few  days,  giving  out  that  he  was 
compelled  to  go  into  town  on  business  of  an  important 
character.  It  was  rare  that  he  went  into  town,  since  his 
leaving  it  with  his  family,  and  such  were  occasions  only 
of  great  importance  to  his  own  affairs. 

On  the  fourth  day  of  his  absence,  Duncan  and*his  bride 
and  Alice,  and  Mr.  Holliday,  were  all  assembled  at  the 
house  of  the  girls,  where  they  were  engaged  in  what,  in 
rural  expression,  is  termed  "  passing  the  afternoon." 
They  were  in  high  spirits,  every  one  of  them.  Alice, 
too,  as  the  varying  expressions  of  her  face  sufficiently  be 
trayed.  Arthur  had  already  conceived  a  strong  attach 
ment  for  Duncan  Morrow,  and  discovered  qualities  of  a 
most  lofty  and  sterling  character  in  him.  It  seemed,  in 
truth,  the  pleasantest  of  all  the  meetings  they  had  yet 
had  together. 

They  were  discussing  quite  animatedly  among  them 
selves  the  project  of  making  an  excursion  into  the  woods 
for  nuts  on  the  morrow,  and  dwelling  with  peculiar  de 
light  on  the  beautiful  landscapes  that  at  this  season  of 
the  year  are  unrolled  to  the  eye  of  the  true  lover  of  na 
ture — when  the  gate  very  unexpectedly  opened  from  the 
road,  and  two  men  walked  toward  the  piazza. 


402  A    HAPPY    MARRIAGE. 

"  There  's  father !"  exclaimed  Martha,  at  once. 

"  Yes,  an  I  a  man  with  him !"  added  her  sister  Mary, 
"  Who  is  it  ?" 

Both  the  girls  scanned  the  stranger  with  an  earnest 
gaze,  and  finally  Martha  ran  to  meet  her  father  at  the 
door.  She  received  his  kiss  with  great  pleasure  ;  but  the 
moment  she  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  stranger's  face  her 
own  countenance  turned  very  pale. 

"  Come,  go  in  again,  Matty,"  said  her  father,  leading 
her  gently  back  by  the  hand.  "  I  shall  be  with  you  there 
in  a  few  minutes." 

And  the  girl  returned  to  her  friends,  though  with  a 
more  thoughtful  look  on  her  face  than  when  she  went  out. 

Presently  Mr.  Rivers  entered  the  room,  and  spoke  to 
them  all.  The  stranger  still  followed  him  closely,  and 
waited  m  silence  till  he  had  addressed  the  whole  of  the 
little  company  ;  though  it  was  certainly  observable  that 
his  eyes  did  fasten  themselves  eagerly  upon  the  two 
young  men  present,  whose  countenances  for  a  moment  he 
appeared  to  be  studying  with  intense  anxiety. 

Martha  and  Mary  both  caught  the  look  of  that  strange 
man,  arid  in  an  instant  recognized  it  as  one  they  had  seen 
but  a  very  little  time  ago.  It  was  the  old  book-peddler, 
who  had  so  abruptly  left  them  when  their  father  appeared 
to  him  across  the  piazza !  And  now  their  father  brought 
this  same  man  home  with  him !  What  a  strange  incon 
sistency  !  There  must  be  a  mystery  locked  up  in  the 
matter  somewhere ! 

They  did  not  fail  to  observe  that  he  was  better  dressed 
than  before,  and  that  that  despairing  look  of  sadness,  once 
brooding  all  the  while  over  his  face,  was  now  relieved  in 
some  measure  by  a  gentle  smile.  It  gave  him  quite  a 
new  aspect  in  their  eyes,  if  it  did  not  really  change  his 
character. 


A     HAPPY    MAEEIAGE.  403 

"Mr.  Holliday,"  said  Mr.  Rivers,  advancing  toward 
the  young  author  in  the  presence  of  them  all,  "I  had  de 
termined  that  this  should  be  a  new  day  in  your  life.  I 
have  learned  your  secret  that  you  have  hitherto  concealed 
from  every  one  so  religiously,  and  endeavored  to  make 
the  very  best  use  of  my  knowledge.  Others  have  suffered 
as  well  as  yourself.  Let  this  day  put  an  end  to  all  un- 
happiness.  This  stranger,  whom  I  have  brought  home 
with  me  is  your  father  !  Surely  you  ought  to  know  one 
another  again !" 

"  Arthur !  Dear  Arthur !"  sobbed  the  old  man,  clasp 
ing  his  son  in  his  opened  arms.  "  Can  you  forget  and 
forgive  the  wrong  I  have  done  you  ?"  and  he  laid  his 
gray  head  on  the  young  man's  shoulder,  and  wept  like  a 
child.  The  young  author's  amazement,  and  the  astonish 
ment  of  the  sisters,  can  only  be  imagined  by  thg  reader. 

Not  then  was  the  story  all  toldtnorthe  mystery  wholly 
made  plain  ;  yet  it  was  explained  at  last.  It  was  this : 
that  Mr.  Brindall — an  assumed  name — had  for  seventeen 
years  suffered  the  legal  punishment  of  his  crime,  and  was 
now  but  a  few  months  released  from  prison.  His  sad  and 
trying  expei'ience,  first  as  an  apple-dealer,  and  then  as  a 
traveling  book-merchant,  the  reader  has  already  had. 

But  there  was  still  another  fact  connected  with  his 
crime.  Mr.  Rivers  himself  was  the  merchant  whose  name 
he  had  forged,  and  who  was  now  the  first,  after  the  seam 
stress  Fanny  Ware,  to  overlook  his  fault  and  restore  him 
to  his  only  living  relation  !  And  yet  again  the  old  man 
was  doubly  surprised  to  find  not  only  that  he  was  freely 
forgiven,  but  that  his  son  was  to  marry  the  daughter  of 
the  very  man  he  had  so  wronged ! 


CHAPTER   XL. 

GOOD     FANNY     WAKE. 

• 

ARTHTTK  HOLLIDAY  had  recently  published  his  second 
book,  and  it  was  a  success. 

Authors  are  now  and  then  fortunate,  even  if  their 
efforts  as  a  general  thing  make  no  very  important  impres 
sion.  They  may  be  obscure  enough  for  years,  and  even 
their  best  friends  be  unaware  of  their  existence  ;  yet  oc 
casionally,  in  more  frequent  instances  now  than  used  to 
be  the  case,  one  of  them  reaches  the  finer  fibers  of  the 
public  heart,  and  sti-aightway  he  becomes  a  marked  can 
didate  for  the  generous  reception  of  dollars,  and  sym 
pathy,  and  fame. 

Arthur,  just  at  this  critical  time,  happened  to  be  one  of 
the  fortunate  ones.  He  had  written  a  book  that  came 
over  the  reading  world  with  delight.  It  seized  hold 
strongly  on  their  deeper  sympathies — those  that  underlie 
all  the  common  characteristics  of  men — and  carried  them 
completely  away  on  its  rapidly  running  current. 

His  publishers  wrote  him  a  formal  letter  of  congratula 
tion  on  his  success — a  habit,  by-the-by,  that  very  few 
publishers  with  any  visible  signs  of  wisdom-teeth  are 
addicted  to — and  extended  to  him,  unsolicited,  better 
terms  for  his  services  in  the  future. — Another  contradic 
tion  of  the  wisdom-teeth  theory. 

Readers  bought  his  work  eagerly,  and  devoured  it 


GOOD    FANNY    WAKE.  405 

with  avidity.  Critics  alluded  to  it  in  highly  flattering 
terras,  which  fact,  inasmuch  as  he  had  published  anony 
mously,  gave  the  toiling  and  hopeful  young  author  a 
great  deal  of  encouragement.  Large  editions  were  run 
rapidly  through  the  press,  and  copies  ordered  on  all  sides 
by  dealers,  long  before  it  was  possible  to  get  them  ready 
for  delivery. 

"Ah,"  said  Arthur  to  himself,  as  he  sat  alone  in  his 
quiet  little  study,  and  contemplated  these  unexpected 
fruits  of  his  labor,  "  but  I  may  hope  !  I  may  still  hope  ! 
That,  at  least,  is  something !" 

And  indeed  it  was  something.  It  is  a  great  deal,  to 
any  youthful  aspirant  who  perseveringly  unites  industri 
ous  labor  with  a  fervent  and  ennobled  ambition.  It  is 
the  bread  that  sustains  him  by  the  way.  It  is  the  staff 
he  may  confidently  lean  upon,  as  he  climbs  so  patiently 
up  the  rugged  sides  of  the  hill. 

The  father  of  Arthur  had,  at  the  son's  urgent  desire, 
taken  up  his  abode  in  the  little  house  with  him,  where  his 
mind  seemed  gradually  settling  down  into  a  state  of  re 
pose  and  enviable  contentment.  He  busied  himself  in 
doors  and  out,  and  helped  his  son  build  up  plans  and 
lay  out  prospects  for  the  future.  The  heavy  burden  of 
his  troubles  he  seemed  to  be  slowly  unpacking  from  his 
shoulders,  and  not  the  most  distant  allusion  was  ever 
made  by  any  one  of  those  in  the  secret,  to  the  story  of 
his  former  crime  and  punishment.  Poor  man!  he  had 
dearly  atoned  for  all  the  wrong  he  had  ever  done. 

One  wedding  in  a  neighborhood  usually  begets  another. 
The  example  that  was  so  perpetually  set  by  the  daily 
presence  and  companionship  of  Duncan  and  Ellen,  oper 
ated  with  a  wonderfully  magnetic  power  on  two  other 
hearts. 

Prospects  were  bright  even  to  brilliancy.     Every  thing 


406  GOOD    FANNY     WAKE. 

looked  well  at  present.  The  broad  future  smiled,  and 
offered  its  largess  already  spread  out  in  its  lap.  Why 
wait  for  a  more  favorable  time?  Why  hope  for  one 
more  prosperous  ? 

Mr.  Rivers's  little  rooms,  therefore,  were  filled,  on  the 
pleasant  morning  that  witnessed  the  marriage  of  Arthur 
and  Martha ;  and  of  all  who  had  been  asked  to  join  the 
little  assembly,  none  could  be  supposed  to  be  any  happier 
than  the  young  bride.  It  was  not  her  lot  to  be  taken, 
like  many  other  brides,  far  away  from  home  ;  she  was  not 
trembling,  even  while  she  was  forced  to  confess  her  hap 
piness,  because  she  must  leave  the  best  and  dearest  of 
friends  behind  ;  it  was  not  a  bridal  like  an  April  day,  half 
smiles  and  half  tears;  it  produced  for  her  nothing  but 
undivided  delight,  and  tilled  her  heart  only  with  joy. 

Arthur's  father  was  there,  and  he  looked  round  on  the 
scene  with  eyes  that  kept  filling  with  tears.  It  was  with 
him  an  excess  of  pleasure;  something  so  far  beyond  what 
he  had  ever  expected  to  witness,  while  he  himself  was  a 
participator  in  it  all. 

And  of  course  Duncan  and  his  bride  were  there,  with 
showers  of  affectionate  wishes  for  those  whose  union  they 
had  come  to  witness.  And  so  was  Alice,  her  sweet  face 
radiant  with  an  expression  that  never  leaped  from  tongue, 
nor  lingered  on  lips.  And  so  was  good  Mrs.  Polly  too, 
alive  with  her  sympathies,  watching  all  the  proceedings 
of  the  occasion  with  attentive  eyes,  and  fondly  believing 
she  had  more  cause  for  gratitude  than  them  all ;  in  the 
thought  that  Alice,  at  least,  was  not  going  to  leave  her. 

It  was  a  pleasant  wedding,  as  such  generally  are,  and 
passed  off  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  several  parties  con 
cerned.  Martha  soon  went  to  live  with  her  husband  at 
the  little  cottage  in  the  bushes,  where  she  expected  to 
pass  a  winter  as  she  had  never  passed  one  yet.  Mary 


GOOD    FANNY    WAKE.  407 

was  close  by  her.  Her  father,  too,  was  right  at  hand. 
Her  dear  old  friend,  Ellen,  had  concluded  to  close  her 
house  in  town,  and  spend  the  whole  winter  in  the  same 
box  with  Alice  and  Mrs.  Polly  ;  and  no  news  could  have 
been  pleasanter  than  that.  Martha  felt  that  she  had 
abundant  cause  for  congratulating  herself  on  the  pleasant 
prospects  that  opened  before  her. 

Some  few  weeks  after  this  event  in  the  quiet  annals  of 
the  village  of  Draggledew  Plain,  Arthur  and  his  father  set 
out  together  for  the  city.  As  soon  as  their  journey  was 
completed,  and  before  stopping  any  where  to  take  re 
freshments,  they  hastened  to  Mr.  Brindall's  late  abode. 
He  opened  the  door  himself,  leading  his  son  up  the  back 
stairs  that  commanded  such  a  view  of  the  huddled  little 
area.  Fanny  sprang  from  her  chair,  uttering  a  cry  of  joy. 

"  Why,  father !"  she  exclaimed,  seizing  his  hand  with 
both  her  own.  But  the  instant  she  paw  that  a  stranger 
was  with  him,  and  a  young  man,  too,  her  manner  lost 
very  much  of  its  intensity,  though  none  of  its  frank 
affectionateness,  and  a  deep  color  stole  to  her  face. 

"  Fanny,"  said  the  father,  "  this  is  a  bright  day  for  me, 
and  for  us  all.  This  is  my  son,  Fanny." 

She  greeted  the  young  author  modestly,  yet  heartily, 
and  then  begged  both  of  them  to  seat  themselves.  She 
was  in  a  maze  of  perplexity  already,  from  only  the  few 
words  Mr.  Brindall  had  spoken. 

The  father  began  then,  and  opened  to  the  generous- 
hearted  girl  the  secret  that,  since  her  acquaintance  with 
him,  had  been  the  canker  of  his  happiness.  He  told  her 
frankly  of  his  crime,  committed  years  ago,  and  of  the 
weary  days  and  nights  of  his  atonement  for  it ;  of  his  ac 
cidentally  carrying  books  to  sell  to  the  house  of  the  very 
man  whom  he  had  wronged,  and  of  there  falling  in  with 
his  own  son,  although  then  totally  unknown  to  him  as 


408  GOOD    FANNY    WARE. 

such ;  of  the  generous  forgiveness  of  Mr.  Rivers,  and 
finally  of  the  happy  marriage  of  his  daughter  to  his  child ; 
"to  my  child,  Fanny,"  said  he-;  "only  think  of  the 
Providence  there  is  in  it !" 

Fanny's  surprise  knew  no  limits.  She  only  looked  it 
from  her  eyes ;  she  could  not  utter  it  in  words. 

"  And  now,"  began  Arthur,  "  I  must  tell  you,  in  the 
first  place,  that  I  have  come  to  thank  you  from  the 
bottom  of  my  heart  for  your  generous  sympathy  for 
my  unfortunate  father.  But  for  you,  my  dear  girl,  I 
knew  not  what  might  have  resulted  to  him  from  his 
unhappy  state  of  mind.  Neither  of  us  can  thank  you 
sufficiently." 

"  No,  indeed ;  no,  indeed !"  interrupted  the  old  man, 
in  a  trembling  voice  that  was  full  of  emotion. 

"  We  at  least  are  going  to  try  to  show  you  our  grati 
tude,"  continued  Arthur. 

"  Oh,  sir !"  modestly  protested  Fanny,  "  it  was  nothing 
for  me  to  do  !  Any  body  else  would  have  done  the  same 
thing  !" 

"  But  it  seems  that  no  one  else  offered  to  do  the  same 
thing,  and  you  must  therefore  ever  remain  dear  to  our 
hearts.  I  have  a  proposal  to  make  to  you.  You  must 
be  obliged  to  work  very  hard  here,  and  can  not  more 
than  secure  a  living  at  that.  I  am  permitted,  through 
my  wife,  to  offer  you  a  pleasant  home  in  the  family  of  her 
mother,  and  I  am  likewise  desired  to  urge  you  to  accept 
it.  If  you  do,  be  assured  that  you  will  confer  lasting 
pleasure  on  the  hearts  of  more  than  ourselves  here." 

"I  don't  know,"  hesitated  the  girl,  stammering  and 
blushing  with  the  confusion  that  had  suddenly  overtaken 
her. 

"Ah,  but  we  want  to  know,"  said  Arthur;  "and  I 
can't  bear  to  think  of  your  disappointing  us." 


GOOD    FANNY    WAEE.  409 

"  No,  Fanny,"  added  his  father.  "  No  ;  don't  disap 
point  us.  You  must  go  !" 

He  succeeded  in  getting  her  to  follow  him  into  the 
room  just  across  the  narrow  entry — his  own  room  for 
merly — where  he  detained  her  alone  for  a  long  time. 
Arthur  could  hear  distinctly  the  words  of  his  father,  as 
he  earnestly  plead  with  her  on  the  matter ;  but  the  girl 
said  little  that  was  audible. 

Mr.  Brindall — we  shall  still  call  him  by  his  assumed 
name  to  our  story's  end — came  back  at  length,  and  his 
eyes  were  read,  as  if  he  had  been  weeping.  His  face 
looked  flushed  and  much  excited. 

Then  Fanny  herself  came  in,  and  took  two  or  three 
idle  turns  across  the  floor,  as  if  she  saw  some  thing  that 
dreadfully  needed  "  putting  to  rights"  in  a  further  corner ; 
and  smoothed  out  the  spread  on  the  little  table  with  the 
palm  of  her  hand. 

"  You  're  going,  I  hope,  are  you  not  ?"  persisted 
Arthur,  for  he  was  fully  determined  not  to  be  put  off. 

"  Well,"  faltered  Fanny,  turning  round  and  holding  on 
by  the  table,  "  I  don't  know.  I  ought  n't  to ;  but  I  sup 
pose  I  must." 

"  Yes,  you  must !  you  must !"  the  young  man  broke 
forth,  with  much  earnestness.  ' 

"  So  you  must !"  echoed  his  father,  rubbing  his  hands. 

"  If  I  can  only  hope  to  make  others  happy  about  me  !" 
said  Fanny,  a  mist  swimming  in  her  bright  and  beautiful 
eyes. 

"  Then  if  that  is  the  only  condition,"  said  both  father 
and  son  together,  "  the  matter  is  settled  !" 

And  Fanny  Ware  left  her  dismal  rooms  that  looked 
out  only  on  that  dreary  area,  and  went  to  live  as  one  of 
the  family  at  the  more  pleasant  house  of  Mr.  Rivers,  in 
the  country. 

18 


410  GOOD    FANNY    WARE. 

The  poor  seamstress  had  cast  her  bread  upon  the 
waters,  in  befriending  the  wretched  man  who  had  looked 
in  vain  into  other  human  faces  for  sympathy ;  and  now, 
after  not  many  days  either,  it  had  returned  to  her  again 
abundantly. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

OLD     NATHAN     GRTJBB    AND     HIS     ERRAND. 

IF  my  good  reader  has  n't  already  forgotten  that  there 
ever  was  such  a  character,  and  if  moreover,  he  can  with 
a  little  effort  recall  the  fact  that  an  old  man  who  rejoiced 
in  that  name  was  an  inmate  of  the  poor-house  at  Epping 
at  the  time  of  the  death  of  Gabriel's  mother,  I  should  be 
happy  to  call  his  attention  to  the  same  individual  once 
more. 

Soon  after  the  murder  of  Henry  Dollar,  and  the  subse 
quent  arrest  and  trial  of  Duncan  Morrow,  together  with 
the  part  Ellen  so  bravely  enacted  on  his  behalf,  the  intel 
ligence  of  these  things  reached  Epping.  Such  news 
always  travels  more  swiftly  than  any  other  ;  and  it  is  apt, 
too,  to  penetrate  into  corners  and  out-of-the-way  spots, 
where  better  intelligence  might  never  think  of  going. 

The  very  day  Nathan  Grubb  heard  the  name  of  Miss 
Worthington  mentioned  in  connection  with  that  of  the 
suspected  criminal,  he  set  his  wits  busily  at  work  to  learn 
if  certain  conjectures  that  floated  dizzily  in  his  brain  could 
be  supposed  to  have  any  definite  meaning.  What  those 
conjectures  were,  the  reader  will  directly  know  for  him 
self. 

He  studied  and  puzzled  for  days.  Several  times  he 
was  surprised  by  some  brother  pauper  at  his  old  chest — 
he  called  it  his  "  chist'" — overhauling  musty  and  rusty 


412  OLD    NATHAN    G  R  TJ  B  B 

papers,  tying  them  very  carefully  up,  and  then  hiding 
them  away  again.  While  he  was  engaged  about  his  little 
errands  in  the  barn,  or  the  field  close  by  the  house,  or 
the  garden,  he  was  seen  quite  often  to  pause  with  his  hoe 
in  his  hand,  to  tip  up  his  hat,  and  shake  his  old  head  very 
ominously.  Oftentimes,  too,  he  was  overheard  in  an  in 
teresting  conversation  with  nobody  but  himself,  in  the 
natural  course  of  which  many  inquiries  of  a  secret  charac 
ter  were  sagely  put,  and  by  the  same  lips,  with  a  know 
ing  shake  of  the  head,  as  sagely  answered. 

He  was  troubled  about  something;  that  was  plain 
enough. 

All  at  once  he  disappeared.  No  rocket,  all  ablaze, 
ever  went  out  in  blank  darkness  any  more  suddenly  than 
old  Nathan  Grubb  went  away  from  the  Epping  poor- 
house.  Mr.  Hardcastle  was  at  a  sore  loss  to  understand 
what  it  could  mean ;  and  Mrs.  Hardcastle  only  said  she 
was  "  glad  on  it,"  and  she  wished  "  from  her  soul,  that  ajl 
the  poor  wretches  would  take  it  into  their  heads  to  go 
off  together,  and  so  make  one  job  on 't !" 

Mr.  Grubb,  too,  went  away  in  the  night.  That  alone 
gave  the  deed  a  character  of  mystery.  And  starting  in 
the  night  as  he  did,  when  the  sun  rose  the  next  morning 
he  had  gone  quite  a  piece  on  toward  the  smokes  and  din 
of  the  great  city.  Gabriel  was  there  ;  at  least  so  he  sus 
pected,  for  he  had  long  ago  heard  of  the  sudden  leave  he 
took  of  Mr.  Nubbles  and  his  family,  and  he  thought  of 
no  other  place  to  which  such  poor  waifs  of  fortune  ever 
go.  And  full  of  faith  on  this  important  point,  he  walked 
on. 

His  first  object  was,  to  find  the  orphan.  The  plans  he 
had  laid  Avith  such  care  and  exactness  in  the  silence  of  the 
old  country  poor-house,  he  found  quite  driven  from  his 
head  in  the  sudden  noise,  and  clatter,  and  rush,  that  dis- 


AND    HIS    ERKAND.  413 

tracted  him  in  the  city.  He  discovered  that  it  would  re 
quire  some  considerable  time  in  the  outset,  to  get  some 
thing  like  a  comprehensive  idea  of  his  work,  and  of  the 
locality  in  which  it  lay. 

But  fortune  rather  took  him  under  her  protection,  and 
he  began  to  feel  as  if  his  labor  might  not  prove  altogether 
fruitless.  By  accident  or  good  luck,  he  pitched  his  tent 
and  made  his  headquarters  exactly  in  the  purlieus  where 
Gabriel  and  little  Jane,  and  a  regiment  of  little  castaways 
beside,  were  hived.  Day  after  day  he  sauntered  among 
them  all,  yet  no  Gabriel  had  he  seen  yet.  He  almost  felt 
tempted,  before  he  got  through,  to  give  it  over  alto 
gether.  Then  he  thought  of  the  results  that  hung  on  his 
perseverance,  and  his  energy  instantly  renewed  itself. 
The  trial  for  the  murder  of  Henry  Dollar,  too,  was  pro 
gressing  at  the  same  time ;  and  that  kept  his  thoughts 
more  active  than  ever,  especially  as  Miss  Worthington's 
name  was  daily  mentioned  every  where  in  connection 
with  it. 

Duncan  had  been  liberated,  however,  and  Isaac 
Crankey  had  already  swung  for  his  crimes  before  old 
Nathan  Grubb  had  made  any  perceptible  progress. 

One  day  he  passed  a  little  ragged  urchin  in  the  narrow 
street,  and  turned  around  mechanically,  according  to  his 
custom,  to  read  his  countenance.  This  time  he  paused 
longer,  and  looked  closer  than  ever.  The  boy  himself 
looked  up  in  return,  rather  puzzled  to  know  what  such 
an  unusual  inspection  might  mean. 

"  Gabriel !  is  that  you  ?"  said  old  Mr.  Grubb,  staring 
at  him  fixedly. 

The  child  gave  him  an  instant  look  of  recognition,  and 
held  out  his  hand  to  be  taken  by  his  old  friend  of  the 
Epping  pooi'-house. 

"  Now  how  come  you  here  ?     Where  've  you  been  all 


414  OLD    NATHAN     GRUBB 

this  time,  I  want  to  know  ?  Who  brought  you  here  ? 
Tell  me  all  about  it,  Gabriel !  You  don't  know  how 
much  I've  worried  for  you,  ever  since  you  run  away 
from  Mr.  Nubbles's !" 

So,  as  they  walked  slowly  along,  Gabriel  went  through 
with  a  straigtforward  narrative  of  his  progress  to,  and 
life  in  the  town. 

"  But  do  you  like  this  as  well  as  you  did  at  Mr.  Nub 
bles's  ?"  asked  his  friend  Nathan,  very  compassionately ; 
for  none  are  more  compassionate  than  the  very  poor. 

"  Yes,"  said  Gabriel ;  "  I  like  any  thing  better  than 
living  there !" 

"  Or  than  the  old  poor-house  ?" 

Gabriel  hesitated.  All  the  old  memories  swept  over 
his  heart. 

"  But  you  're  dreadful  poor !  How  lean  you  look ! 
Where  do  you  live  ?  Who  takes  care  of  you  ?" 

"I  did  live  with  Isaac  Crankey  ;  he  Avas  the  man  that 
first  got  me  away  from  Mr.  Nubbles.  But  he's  dead 
now.  He  's  the  man  they  've  just  hung !" 

Old  Nathan  started  in  affright.  "  Is  that  so,  Gabriel  ? 
And  you  've  been  livin'  all  this  time  with  that  wicked 
murderer !" 

Yes  it  was  really  so.  This  was  but  a  single  one  of  the 
many  strange  things  the  world  sees  every  day. 

"  And  who  have  you  lived  with  since  he  was  put  into 
prison,  then  ?" 

"  With  Kate  Trott.  She  was  an  old  friend  of  his ;  and 
she 's  adopted  me  for  her  own  child." 

Nathan  Grubb  continued  to  walk  on,  still  leading  the 
orphan  by  the  hand.  He  grew  silent  and  deeply  thought 
ful.  Few  words  were  spoken  now,  and  even  the  occa 
sional  questions  of  Gabriel  were  unanswered. 

Finally  the  old  man  stopped  short. 


AND    HIS    ERRAND.  415 

"  Now  I  want  you  to  tell  me,  Gabriel,"  said  he,  "  as 
you  would  answer  to  a  dear  old  friend  of  your  mother  as 
well  as  yourself,  do  you  like  to  stay  where  you  are  ?" 

The  boy  looked  down  at  the  ground. 

"  No,  you  don't !  I  see  you  don't !  Well,  jest  see 
here,  now !  Should  n't  you  a  good  deal  rather  go  and 
live  somewhere  else,  in  some  pleasant  place,  than  stay 
where  you  are  ?" 

"  With  you,  Mr.  Grubb  ?"  he  innocently  asked,  look 
ing  up  quickly  in  his  face. 

"  With  me  ?  Well,  we  'd  see  about  it.  But  at  any 
rate,  with  somebody  that  'd  be  as  kind  to  you  as  any  little 
body  like  yourself  could  wish.  Should  n't  you  rather  go, 
than  stay  where  you  are  ?" 

"  I  don't  like  staying  here,"  answered  Gabriel.  "  It 's 
a  bad  place.  There  's  bad  people  all  round.  I  remember 
what  my  mother  said  to  me  before  she  died,  and  then  I 
think  what  sort  of  a  life  I  am  living  here ;  and  it  makes 
me  very  sad.  I  wish  I  could  go  somewhere  else,  Mr. 
Grubb,  where  better  people  are.  I  do  indeed !" 

"Then  you  shall,  dear  boy!"  said  the  old  man,  with 
a  very  fervent  emphasis. 

And  that  same  day  they  bade  a  final  adieu  to  the  quar 
ter  that  had  detained  Gabriel  so  long,  and  took  their  de 
parture  for  scenes  and  persons  more  in  sympathy  with 
the  wants  and  wishes  of  his  heart.  Mr.  Grubb  would  not 
hear  to  such  a  thing  as  going  back  to  Kate  Trott's  to  get 
what  few  clothes  the  boy  might  have,  but  persisted  in 
getting  out  of  town  as  fast  as  he  could. 

But  before  he  really  shook  off  the  dust  of  his  worthy 
feet,  he  wandered  just  at  dusk  to  a  house  about  which  he 
had  already  walked  many  times.  It  was  a  handsome 
residence,  and  situated  in  a  most  respectable  quarter  of 
the  city.  After  reaching  the  steps  with  Gabriel,  he  pro- 


416  OLD    NATHAN    GEUBB 

ceeded  to  lead  him  up.  The  boy  was  bewildered,  and 
silently  wondered  what  it  meant. 

Nathan  rang  the  bell,  and  inquired  if  Miss  Worthing- 
ton  lived  th<jre.  "Yes,  she  did."  Was  she  at  home? 
"  No,  she  was  n't,"  with  a  long  stare  at  himself  and  his 
youthful  companion.  Could  he  ask  where  she  was? 
"Yes,  she  had  just  got  married,  and  was  then  on  her 
wedding-tour.  She  wouldn't  be  back  home  in  some 
time." 

The  old  man  held  up  his  disengaged  hand  in  surprise. 
He  began  to  think  his  plans  were  baffled  at  almost  every 
turn. 

"Would  the  girl  please  to  tell  him  who  she  married  ? — 
If  it  was  Mr.  Morrow  ?  "It  was  Mr.  Morrow  ;"  and  he 
would  be  likely  to  visit  his  native  village  with  his  bride, 
before  their  return. 

Instantly  the  right  idea  found  its  way  into  Mr.  Grubb's 
brain ;  and  thanking  the  servant  for  her  kindness,  he 
walked  with  increased  briskness  down  the  flight  of  steps, 
still  holding  on  by  Gabriel's  hand.  He  seemed  deter 
mined  at  least  not  to  lose  him. 

Although  night  was  upon  them,  the  old  man  did  not 
think  it  advisable  to  remain  longer  in  the  city ;  so  he 
Vegan  a  sort  of  forced  march  with  his  little  companion, 
steering  his  course  direct  toward  the  open  country. 

It  happened  to  be  a  moonlit  night,  clear  and  beauti 
ful.  Every  object  was  penciled  in  a  distinct  outline  upoi* 
the  ground,  and  the  light  of  the  moon  was  white  as  silver 
The  few  trees  along  the  streets  threw  down  the  slender 
network  of  their  leaves  and  sprays  on  the  pavements, 
making  almost  fairy  grottoes  among  the  shadows  through 
which  they  walked.  The  youthful  imagination  of  the  boy 
was  kindled  with  every  thing  that  he  Saw. 


AND     HIS     ERRAND.  417 

They  passed  the  limits  of  town  life,  and  emerged  upon 
long  roads,'  narrow  and  dreary,  skirted  by  few  houses, 
and  those  far  apart,  and  more  and  more  hidden  in  the 
leaves.  The  sight  of  them,  sleeping  so  soundly  in  the 
shadows,  while  the  white  moon  shone  so  pleasantly  over 
every  thing  else,  tended  rather  to  infuse  a  spirit  of 
melancholy  into  the  boy's  heart,  and  carried  his  thoughts 
vaguely  back  to  mother,  home,  the  blessed  country,  and 
a  host  of  objects  of  which  he  might  never  before  have 
practically  known.  So  dimly  are  our  real  thoughts 
sometimes  seen  in  the  sheen  of  the  moonlight.  So  like 
long-forgotten  dreams,  dance  old  memories  and  fancies 
intermingled,  through  the  shimmering  network  of  the 
moonbeams. 

All  night  long  they  traveled  on  ;  and  though  Gabriel 
grew  weary  before  the  morning  dawned  dull  and  gray 
in  the  east,  yet  he  made  no  complaint.  Old  Nathan  now 
and  then  asked  him  if  he  was  tired,  but  he  bravely  turned 
it  off  with  an  answer  of  apparent  unconcern. 

They  stopped  and  got  a  frugal  meal  in  the  morning  at 
a  quiet  farm-house,  and  begged  for  permission  to  sit  and 
rest  themselves  awhile  in  the  kitchen,  which  was  granted 
them.  Gabriel  very  soon  fell  asleep  in  his  chair,  where 
he  continued  sleeping  till  he  was  awakened  again  by  his 
companion.  "I  might  let  you  sleep  till  night,"  said 
Nathan,  "  but  it 's  better  not  to,  here.  We  ought  to  be 
goin'."  And  bidding  their  kind  hostess  good-morning, 
they  struck  off  into  the  road  again. 

All  day  they  traveled  on,  sometimes  managing  to  catch 
a  ride  on  a  cart,  occasionally  stopping  in  some  sheltered 
spot  by  the  road-side  to  rest  their  weary  limbs,  and  beg 
ging  what  food  they  wanted  as  they  went  along.  Tired 
as  the  orphan  was,  he  was  not  so  tired  that  he  could  not 

18* 


418  OLD    NATHAN    GKUBB 

enjoy  most  deeply  this  new  sense  of  freedom.  Oh,  how 
his  heart  expanded,  as  he  looked  over  the*  broad  land 
scapes,  and  felt  that  among  such  as  these  he  might  hope 
to  spend  all  his  days — away  from  crime,  away  from  wicked 
people,  in  the  lap  of  bountiful  and  beautiful  Nature !  If 
he  had  any  one  secret  wish  connected  with  the  city  on 
which  he  had  turned  his  back,  it  was  that  he  might  never, 
never  behold  its  stony  streets,  or  its  people,  again  ! 

For  four  successive  days  they  kept  on  their  way,  man 
aging  about  their  rest  and  refreshment  as  they  had  be 
gun.  The  people  were  every  where  kind,  and  seemed  to 
feel  a  strong  sympathy  for  their  condition.  No  door  was 
ever  coldly  shut  against  them,  and  no  hand  refused  them, 
of  such  as  it  had  to  give. 

It  was  rather  early  on  the  morning  of  the  fifth  day  after 
their  departure  from  the  city,  when  they  arrived  at 
Draggledew  Plain.  This  was  the  focus  of  all  old  Nathan's 
hopes  and  plans.  They  had  already  begged  a  breakfast 
a  mile  or  two  back,  and  Nathan  said  he  felt  fresh  and 
ready  for  his  work.  As  yet  he  had  not  told  Gabriel  the 
plan  he  had  been  nursing  in  his  mind,  but  the  boy  was 
made  to  believe  that  his  kind  old  friend  was  going  to 
take  him  into  the  country  somewhere,  and  provide  him 
with  a  permanent  and  happy  home.  The  orphan's  limbs 
were  swollen,  and  somewhat  stiff,  from  the  severe  cold  he 
had  taken  in  the  rain ;  but  he  made  no  complaint.  The 
heart  had  courage  to  support  both,  itself  and  the  body 
then. 

Just  as  they  reached  the  gate  of  the  little  cottage 
where  Alice  Morrow  lived,  Nathan  stopped.  "I'm  goin' 
in  here,"  said  he ;  and  the  boy  followed  him  up  to  the 
door.  He  knocked,  and  Duncan  himself  made  his  ap 
pearance. 


AND     HIS    ERRAND.  419 

"  I  want  to  see  her  that  was  Miss  Worthington,"  said 
Nathan,  very  earnestly.  "  I  've  come  a  great  ways,  and  I 
must  see  her  this  morning  !" 

Duncan  bestowed  on  himself  and  his  traveling  com 
panion  a  searching  look. 

"  You  can  see  her,  I  suppose,"  he  replied  ;  "  come  in 
with  me." 

The  man  and  the  boy  had  been  seated  but  a  moment 
when  Ellen  came  in.  Nathan  rose  from  his  chair,  and, 
still  holding  his  hat  in  his  hand,  told  his  errand : 

"  You  are  Miss  Worthington  that  was,  I  s'pose  ? — Yes  ? 
well,  I  've  studied  this  many  and  many  a  day  for  months, 
to  find  ye." 

"  Me !"  exclaimed  the  bride. 

"  Yes,  you." 

Duncan  waited  to  know  why,  no  less  than  his  young 
wife. 

"  Wait  a  minnit,"  said  the  old  man,  "  and  I  '11  tell  ye. 
It's  jest  here,  now.  Last  winter,  in  the  very  dead  o' 
winter,  this  little  boy's  mother  died  in  the  old  poor-house 
over  to  Epping.  I  was  livin'  there  myself  at  the  time ; 
and  I  s'pose  I  live  there  now,  that  is,  when  I  'm  to  home. 
On  her  dyin'  bed,  that  boy's  mother  b'egged  me  to  take 
care  of  him.  I  promised  her  as  well  as  I  could ;  but 
what  could  I  do  ? — I,  a  pauper  !  Well,  and  she  give  me 
a  couple  of  letters  that  had  been  written  to  her  years  and 
years  before,  when  she  was  nothin'  but  a  girl  unmarried 
— that  had  been  written  to  her  by  a  sister  o'  hers.  She 
said  that  them  letters  might  be  useful  sometime  in  helpin' 
the  dear  boy  along  through  the  world,  and  keepin'  him 
out  o'  sufferin'.  And  I  've  got  'em  yet.  I  always  kept 
'em  as  sacred  as  any  treasure. 

"  The  Selectmen  of  the  town  o'  Epping  thought  'twas 


120  OLD    NATHAN    GRUBB 

ftest  to  bind  the  boy  out  to  service ;  and  so  they  did. 
They  put  him  out  to  Mr.  Nubbles — a  man  that  lives 
somewhere  round  here  on  a  place  they  call  Worry  witch 
Hill ;  and  I  should  n't  wonder  myself  if  't  was  a  worry- 
witch  sort  of  a  spot,  indeed !  He  staid  there  awhile,  and 
then  he  went  away ;  he  '11  tell  you  himself  sometime, 
perhaps,  what  he  went  *vay  for,  and  who  he  went  with, 
and  all  about  it.  At  all  events,  I  went  off  to  the  city, 
determined  to  hunt  him  up.  I  'd  made  his  mother  a 
solemn  promise,  and  I  felt  as  if  I  was  bound  by  it  to  the 
end.  As  good  luck  would  have  it,  too,  I  found  him  in 
the  street,  not  but  a  few  days  ago ;  and  we  've  walked 
from  that  time  to  this,  till  we  're  right  before  you  here  !" 

Ellen  could  hardly  repress  an  exclamation  of  surprise, 
that  one  who  was  so  young  and  looked  so  frail,  should  be 
exposed  to  the  fatigue  of  so  long  a  journey  on  foot. 

"  Now  I  want  you  to  read  them  letters,  marm,  if  you  've 
a  mind  to,"  and  he  proceeded  to  draw  them  from  the 
depths  of  a  pocket  somewhere  about  his  old  coat,  and  to 
deliver  them  into  her  hand. 

Ellen  took  them,  and  read  them  attentively.  The  old 
man  watched  her  countenance  eagerly  during  the  perusal. 
Alternately  her  face  was  burning  with  color,  and  pale 
with  surprise.  She  extended  both  hands,  and  exclaimed 
in  a  voice  of  excitement — 

"  Why,  these  letters  were  written  by  my  own  mother !" 

"  Yes,"  added  Nathan,  bowing,  "  and  to  her  own  and 
only  sister !" 

"Gabriel?  Is  this  Gabriel?"  asked  Ellen,  advancing 
toward  him  hurriedly. 

"  That 's  Gabriel,"  said  Nathan.  "  His  mother  went  by 
the  name  of  Mrs.  Vane,  while  she  lived  over  at  Epping 
poor-house  ;  but  that  never  was  her.  name.  Her  married 


AND    HIS    EBEAND.  421 

name  was  Rossiter.  That  was  her  husband's  name,  she 
told  me." 

"  Yes,  yes ;  I  've  heard  my  mother  say  that !  I  've 
heard  the  whole  story  long  ago,  but  never  knew  what 
had  become  of  my  poor  aunt.  And  so  she  died  in  the 
poor  house !  And  this  is  my  own  cousin ! — the  only  rela 
tion  I  have  left !"  and  she  put  her  hands  affectionately 
on  Gabriel's  head,  and  assured  him  that  he  should  want 
home  and  friends  no  more  : 

"  Who  was  he  living  with,  when  you  found  him  in  the 
city  ?"  asked  Duncan^ interested  deeply  in  this  unexpected 
discovery. 

"  He  had  been  living  with  Isaac  Crankey,  sir,  he  said ; 
but  since  he — he  died,  a  woman  he  called  Kate  Trott  took 
him  in  her  charge." 

Duncan  turned  pale  as  death.  He  looked  round  upon 
Ellen,  and  she  was  trembling  in  every  limb, 

So  very,  very  close  had  been  their  connection  with  this 
murderer ! 

Arrangements  were  at  once  made  to  give  little  Gabriel 
a  quiet  home  with  Mrs.  Polly ;  and  his  old  friend  Nathan 
was  provided  for,  too,  with  all  thoughtfulness  beneath  the 
same  roof.  It  would  have  been  hardly  fair  to  separate 
them  now.  In  the  pleasant  village  of  Draggledew  Plain, 
therefore,  so  near  the  scenes  of  his  earlier  and  bitter  ex 
periences,  he  dwelt  among  kindred  and  friends,  in  whose 
sympathies  he  might  find  sustenance  for  his  own  as  long 
as  he  lived.  His  had  been  a  blasted  life  till  now :  hence 
forth  it  was  to  start  forward  with  a  new  vigor,  and 
blossom  with  the  many  promises  of  a  rich  fruitage, 
as  the  days  of  manhood  cast  their  long  shadows  before 
him. 

There  are  but  one  or  two  other  personages  of  whom 


422 

we  wish  to  speak,  and  that  very  briefly — and  our  story 
is  told. 

The  Nubbles  family  went  down  hill  at  a  galloping  pace. 
Mr.  Nubbles  drank  with  his  friend  Jo  Rummins  pretty 
nearly  all  the  time.  So  that  it  was  not  a  great  while 
before  the  former,  managed  to  invite  a  visit  from  that 
terrible  disease,  known  as  the.  delirium  tremens,  which 
carried  him  off  in  a  tempest  of  madness  and  terror  too 
dreadful  to  bo  described  ;  and  the  latter,  hearing  the  sad 
news,  fell  shortly  after  into  a  state  of  hypochondria,  from 
which  he  obtained  relief  at  last  only.by  suspending  himself 
by  his  neck  from  the  ceiling  of  his  desolate  kitchen,  where 
he  was  found  by  the  villagers  not  until  several  days  after 
ward.  To  this  day  they  shun  his  house  as  a  pestilence ; 
and  little  children  as  they  go  by  on  the  still  road,  shudder 
at  the  tale  that  was  told  them,  and  hurry  on  as  if  afraid 
still  of  seeing  his  ghostly  face  peering  at  them  through 
the  windows. 

As  for  Mrs.  Nubbles,  and  Kit,  nothing  was  left  them 
but  the  poor-house.  And  to  the  poor-house  they  went ; 
the  same  spot  from  which,  but  so  short  a  time  before, 
little  Gabriel  went  forth  in  tears,  as  the  apprentice-boy  of 
the  husband  and  father !  A  strange  mutation,  but  not 
less  just  than  strange ! 

Mr.  Dollar's  heart  gave  him  no  rest.  Duncan  and 
Alice  were  greatly  surprised,  one  day,  to  receive  a  com 
munication  from  his  own  hand,  in  which  he  set  forth  that 
he  had  fully  restored  to  them  the  amount  of  their  claim, 
interest  included,  and  hoped  that  they  would  be  happy 
the  rest  of  their  lives.  For  himself,  he  said  that  he  could 
find  peace  nowhere  again  but  in  the  grave.  He  desired 
that  they  should  never  attempt  to  approach  him,  for  thence 
forward  he  resolved  to  be  known  of  no  living  person. 


AND     HIS    ERRAND.  423 

And  accordingly  he  took  up  his  weary  walk  through 
the  world  as  a  wanderer,  and  is  to  this  day  trying  in  vain 
to  hurry  away  from  the  thoughts  that,  like  vague  and 
bodiless  phantoms,  rise  up  behind  him  on  his  path,  and 
will  rise  up,  till  he  has  purged  his  heart  forever  of  their 
awful  presence. 

The  world  will  offer  him  now  its  pity ;  but  for  all  that, 
he  can  never  cease  to  be  his  own  persistent  and  inexor 
able  accuser ! 


THE     END 


DERBY    &    JACKSON'S 

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**  The  tflost  Superbly  Illustrated  Book  ever  Produced  In  Jlmertca.'* 

THE  COURT  OF  NAPOLEON; 

OR, 

Sotietg  tmbtr  %  <$irst  Empire. 

WITH  SIXTEEN    PORTRAITS  OF  ITS  BEAUTIES,  WITS,  AND   HEROINES. 

BY   FRANK   B.  GOODRICH  (Dick  Tinto) 
•  Royal  Quarto.     Turkey  Antiqu*,  $13  50. 

THE  plan  of  this  work  is  to  present  in  one  view  the  passage  of  French  society  from  the 
confusion  into  which  it  was  thrown  by  the  Revolution,  to  a  regular  and  normal  situation, 
under  the  dictatorship  of  Napoleon.  The  various  periods  treated  of,  are  illustrated  by 
their  remarkable  women  —  the  KEIGN  OF  TERROR  by  its  heroines  —  the  DIRECTORY  by  its  cele 
brated  beauties  —  the  CONSULATE  and  EMPIRE  by  the  wits  and  belles  of  the  Imperial  Era. 


(1)  CHARLOTTE  CORDAY. 

(2)  MADAME  ROLAND. 

(8)  MADAME  TALLIES. 

(4)  MADAME    UECAMIER,   whose    love  was 

sought  by  Napoleon  and  Lucien  Bo 
naparte,  Bernadotte,  Murat,  Junot, 
the  Montmoreneies  (father  and  son), 
Augustus,  1'rince  of  Prussia,  and  Lord 
Wellington,  and  "  whose  beauty  threw 
at  her  feet  every  man  who  had  once 
looked  upon  her." 

(5)  PAULINE  BONAPARTE,  the  most  beautiful 

princess  in  Europe,  and  whose  fantas 
tic  and  uncontrollable  caprices  gave 
her  brother  constant  annoyance. 

(6)  CAROLINE  BONAPARTE,  wife  of  Murat 

and  Queen  of  Naples. 

SM™«  '&«,  (the  two  Empresses. 

(9)  HORTENSE  DE  BEAUHARNAis,  daughter 

of  Josephine  and  mother  of  Louis 
Napoleon  and  the  Count  de  Morny. 

(10)  GRACE  INGERSOLL,  the  Belle  of  New 
Haven,  transferred  by  marriage  to 
France,  and  subsequently  one  of  the 
beauties  who  frequented  the  Court  of 
the  Tuileries. 

ill)  M'LLB  on  COLOMBIER,  Napoleon's  first 
love,  with  whom  he  used  to  eat  cher 
ries  at  six  in  the  morning. 


(12)  MADAME  REGNAULT  DE  ST.  JEAN  D'AN- 
GELY,  a  peerless  beauty,  one  of  whose 
replies  to  Napoleon  has  become  his 
torical.  Napoleon  said  to  her  at  a 
ball,  "  Do  you  know,  Madame  Reg- 
nault,  that  you  are  looking  muck 
older  ?"  She  answered  at  once,  and  in 
the  hearing  of  an  hundred  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  "  The  observation  which 
you  have  done  me  the  honor  to  make, 
sire,  might  possibly  have  given  me 
pain,  had  I  arrived  at  a  period  when 
youth  is  regretted."  She  was  twonty- 
eight  years  old. 

(18)  MADAME  JUNOT,  DUCHESS  D'ABRANTES. 
This  lady  refused  Napoleon's  brothel 
in  marriage ;  her  brother  would  nol 
accept  Napoleon's  sister,  Pauline,  and 
her  mother,  Madame  de  Permon,  re 
fused  Napoleon  himself.  The  first 
daughter,  Josephine  Junot,  was  Na 
poleon's  first  god-child. 

(14)  MADAME  DE  STAEL,  the  first  literarj 

woman  of  the  age. 

(15)  M'LLE  LENORMAND,  the  sibyl  of  the  19tb 

century,  and  the  intimate  confidant 
of  Josephine ;  of  whom  it  was  said 
that  "she  contrived  to  obtain  cre 
dence  in  an  age  which  neither  believed 
in  God  and  his  angels,  nor  the  devil 
and  his  Imps." 

(16)  M'I.LE  GEORGES,  the  tragic  actress  and 

protegee  of  Napoleon. 


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„  The  best  Painter  of  Sea  Characters  since  Smollett !"— Edinburgh 
RE-PUBLICATION  OF 

MARRYATT'S  NOVELS, 

DUODECIMO    LIBRARY    EDITION. 


THE  FIRST  COMPLETE  AMERICAN  EDITION 

OF  THE  CELEBRATED  NAUTICAL  NOVELS  OP  CAPTAIN  MARRY  ATT. 

THERE  has  long  been  an  active  demand  among  the  thousands  of 
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PETER  SIMPLE,  JACOB  FAITHFUL, 

THE  KING'S  OWN,  PACHA  OF  MANY  TALES, 

MIDSHIPMAN  EASY,  JAPHET  IN  SEARCH  OF  A  FATHEE, 

SNAELEYYOW,  THE  PHANTOM  SHIP, 

NEWTON  FORSTER,  THE  POACHER, 

THE  NAVAL  OFFICER,  PERCIVAL  KEENE. 

"  Captain  Marryatt's  writings  depict  life  at  sea  with  the  same  fidelity,  and  with  far 
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ance  and  astonish  us  by  their  faithful  resemblance  to  whole  classes  of  beings  similarly 
situated.  Captain  Marryatt's  humor  is  genuine,  it  flows  naturally,  and  insensibly  com 
municates  to  the  reader  the  gaiety  the  author  seems  himself  animated  with." — Wett- 
minister  Review. 

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75 
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1  25 
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1  00 
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1  00 

1  25 

1  25 
1  00 
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1  00 
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